


Blood, Like Pasta, is Thicker Than Water

by counterheist



Series: heistverse [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Betrayal, F/M, Interpol - Freeform, M/M, Muffins, Mutual Stalking, OHHH, Robots, Schmoop, Symbolism, ahhh, boat chases, crazy movie physics, everything is connected, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, gold - Freeform, i am not going to even try typing them all in, morning after gay crisis, public intoxication, ridiculous coincidences, shoujo heroine austria, there are so many hinted pairings, ve - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-07
Updated: 2010-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 102,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counterheist/pseuds/counterheist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heist AU. When a group of thieves steals his stupid little brother's gold, mafia middleman Lovino Vargas does what it takes to get that fucking gold back.</p><p>Feat. muffins, INTERPOL, mutual stalking, and a robot named Tony</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <a href="http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/13125.html?thread=30519621#t30519621">Original version here on hetalia-kink</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pasta in the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> If the kink meme version is v0, then this is v2. In January 2011 I went through it, added some extra parts, and self-beta'd. There are probably still issues and errors, and if you find them I would love it if you let me know! I might not act on your advice, especially if it would require heavy fixes, but I would still like to know.
> 
> Concrit is 100% welcome.

“ _Pasta in the Rain_ has to be my favorite.”

“Really? His Pasta collection feels like a bunch of scribbles to me. _Afternoon Chopin_ is absolutely gorgeous though; I can’t believe it’s by the same artist. It looks so real you feel like you could reach out and tap the pianist on the shoulder.”

“True…”

Around the corner, a man smiled into his champagne flute. It was always wonderful when people enjoyed his work. And tonight it seemed like everyone at the gala was doing just that! Looking around at the groups of people admiring his paintings, deriving their own joy from the paint he had put to canvas, Feliciano Vargas was in his element.

Unfortunately, the happiness of others didn’t pay for his pasta. Luckily for Feliciano, his works were extremely popular. Collectors from all over the world mingled in the brightly lit studio, and several of the larger paintings already had small placards declaring ‘SOLD’ on the walls beside them.

“Veneziano! Darling!”

Feliciano turned at the sound of the name he signed every painting with. The speaker was one of his regular patrons, Feliks Łukasiewicz, a Polish model turned art connoisseur. He was approaching quickly, a taller man in tow.

“Now that I’ve seen it, I like totally have to have it. Seriously, how much are you asking for that gorgeous _Pasta in the Rain_? Actually, no. Hold that. I want the whole Pasta collection. My Warsaw apartment is, like, so totally empty it’s not even funny. The red theme I had going on last month was, like, completely wrong, so I made my assistant totally get rid of everything two days ago.”

Feliks gestured to the flustered looking brunette behind him. “You know Toris, right? But anyway, Veneziano, I totally need your new paintings! They’d be so perfect you don’t even know; it’s like you were like completely in tune with my apartment space when you were creating them.”

Feliciano couldn’t stop himself from grinning. Feliks was one of his favorite customers because although it appeared to most that he changed his mind at the drop of a hat, in reality he truly loved the art that Feliciano produced. Other collectors did just that: they collected his paintings and let them sit in storage like unwanted furniture. Feliciano hated when that happened. His paintings were like his children, and it was just wrong to neglect a child!

“Ve, Pasta is really important to me, but for you, I think I can let them go. But make sure you send me pictures to show how they’re doing in Warsaw!”

Feliks nodded, completely serious. “Like, I totally will, just like always. You know I wouldn’t let anything awful happen to my Veneziano originals.” He turned to the man at his side. “Toris, hey, Toris! Like, make arrangements to have the whole Pasta collection sent to Warsaw. I totally want to be hanging _Pasta in the Rain_ in the lounge by tomorrow afternoon!”

With that command, Feliks made his goodbyes and disappeared into the flurry of art collectors and socialites. With a fond but tired sigh, his assistant turned to Feliciano, intent on doing business as quickly as possible. The last time his boss had been out of his sight for too long… had taken a long time to fix. And of course, Toris had been the one doing all of the fixing.

“When would you like the bars delivered, Mr. Veneziano?”

Somebody might not know it just by looking at him, Toris mused, but Mr. Veneziano was… kind of strange. Toris had heard stories of public nudity and other eccentricities, but after having bought so many paintings from the man for Feliks, the main oddity that struck him was Mr. Veneziano’s form of payment.

Mr. Veneziano would only accept solid gold bars.

That much gold wasn’t easy to come by, and at first Toris had tried to get around procuring it by offering to simply pay extra cash for the painting he had been asked to buy ( _“Like, Toris! Get me that Veneziano piece! It needs to be in my Kraków studio like yesterday!”_ ). But Mr. Veneziano wouldn’t have it. Eventually, Toris had located a reliable gold supplier for whenever Feliks decided it was time to redecorate.

“Hmmm…You can send them to my studio on Tuesday, ve. I won’t have time for them until then.”

‘ _Yes_ ,’ Toris thought, as he walked away from Mr. Veneziano and towards the commotion ( _that no doubt contained his_ boss) on the other side of the gallery. ‘ _Mr. Veneziano is awfully strange…_ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, this story is the story behind the username, so to speak. If you can suggest a better summary, please do. Also: someone on the kink meme asked if I could repost the ANs, so I'm compromising by keeping all the little supplemental tidbits I posted in the comments. Food for thought. Here goes for this one:
> 
> When I was thinking about it, Pasta in the Rain looked kind of like [this](http://i39.tinypic.com/oqzvbn.jpg), but +500000000 abstract art skill points.
> 
> And one of the anons from the kink meme ended up drawing a way more kickass [Pasta in the Rain](http://i42.tinypic.com/29aqnww.jpg)!
> 
> And another anon did too! So have another [Pasta in the Rain](http://img13.imageshack.us/img13/4060/pastaintherain.jpg)!!
> 
> What I was going for was that Feliciano has two modes of painting:
> 
>  **Mode One:** Freaky abstraction that's all colors! And splotches! And lines! And more colors! And people think 'Yeah. That's totally what's going on in _his_ head all of the time.'
> 
> But then there's **Mode Two:** Which is all, 'Tra la la, oh I didn't know it was still daytime outside, there certainly is a nice view from this window up here, wait, why aren't all those people moving HOLY CRAP THIS IS A PAINTING.'
> 
> And then people see both modes and they get all confused because they thought they'd figured out The Great Veneziano, and the confusion won't go away until they accept that he _can't_ really be figured out. I don't think many people would have accepted this yet; most are content to think that the realistic ones are just _really_ lucky flukes.
> 
> I once read that writing Feliciano made the author go into lots of run-on sentences and I think I have to agree. A lot.


	2. Orderliness, Propriety and the Freedom to Work 30 Hours Straight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ludwig Beilschmidt gets a call one night from his most excitable, frustrating, fast-talking, dedicated, wonderful client.

After the phone started ringing for the 6th time, Ludwig Beilschmidt decided it was time to give up. He turned off the welding torch he had been using, folded his apron, and neatly set his gloves in their proper place on a side table. As he began to ascend the steps leading out of his basement-turned-workshop, Ludwig wondered who could be calling at 11 in the evening.

One too many prank phone calls from his brother had prompted Ludwig to remove the phone that had been in the workshop. Although that hadn’t stopped Gilbert from calling the house at odd hours, he usually stopped after 4 failed tries.

So it wasn’t Gilbert.

Ludwig flipped through the mental catalog of people he knew. It was a Wednesday night at 11… none of his casual acquaintances, suppliers or customers would be calling him now. He had no appointments until his biannual dental checkup the Thursday after next. No one _should_ be calling him, which meant that he automatically knew who _was_ calling him.

“Feliciano.”

“Ve, Ludwig, hello!”

The greeting blasted into Ludwig’s ear, even though he held the speaker 6 centimeters away; he already used glasses to read, the last thing he needed was damaged hearing on top of that. Without waiting for a reply, Feliciano continued speaking. “How do you always know that it’s me? I thought you didn’t have Caller ID? Ve, you’re so smart Ludwig!”

Ludwig sighed and moved to check his calendar. “Does this mean you need more castings done now? I was scheduled to come to Venice in three weeks.” He didn’t like it when other people didn’t keep to their schedules.

“Ve, Ludwig. I haven’t seen you in weeks and all you can talk about is work, ve! It’s been really really busy lately, but you should have at least called!”

“Feliciano.”

“Why didn’t you pick up the phone earlier? Were you still working? You shouldn’t be working now, it’s so late!”

“ _Feliciano_.”

“Luuudwig… I know, I know I said you should come in a few weeks but I had a really good show this weekend and Feliks bought all of my Pasta paintings and I really want to get the gold put away. I don’t like it just sitting around my studio like this, ve, brother made a really scary face when he saw it yesterday. So can you please please please come down to Venice now? Tonight?”

Ludwig liked it even less when other people didn’t keep to _his_ schedule.

“Please Ludwig? Ve… I really want to see you too. It’s been too long, I’ve missed you. We can get coffee when you’re done?”

But for Ludwig Beilschmidt, Feliciano Vargas was a special case. The sculptor blushed as he began writing a note to his brother ( _Gilbert, I’ve gone on a work trip. Please stop breaking into my house_ ) even as he spoke.

“Well… well it’s very late notice. Feliciano, you should know better than to call so late and expect me to immediately get on a train to Venice!” Flustered, Ludwig made a check of his house. Overnight bag packed and ready? _Check_. Lights off? _Check_. Stove off? _Check_.

“…I didn’t think of that, ve. But don’t you want to come over? Please? I’ll make you delicious pasta!”

Workshop door triple bolted? _Check_.

Ludwig returned to the phone cradle in the kitchen. “I’ll be in Venice by the morning train. Please remember to wear pants when you go to the station.”

“Ve! How did you know I was painting naked again–”

_Click._

With that mental image, Ludwig locked the door to his home and began the walk to the bus stop, which would take him to the train station, which would eventually bring him to his excitable Venetian client.

  


Friend. Something else?

Ludwig Beilschmidt was an intimidating man. Tall and sturdy, his neighbors knew him as the stern-faced figure in a well-starched suit that always said very proper hellos and had no other social skills to speak of. Newcomers to the neighborhood always assumed that Mr. Beilschmidt was a government worker or an insurance agent from the way he carried himself.

Without fail, they were always surprised to learn that Mr. Beilschmidt wasn’t anything of the sort, and in fact was the very same sculptor who had made and donated the lovely fountain in the new park around the corner, didn’t you know? Yes, he did that fantastic metal… _thing_ … on Königstraße too. No, no, I have no idea how it stays up, you’d have to ask him.

With degrees in business management and physics, everyone in Ludwig’s life had expected him to become an engineer or an office worker. So when he had moved to Munich and opened a small studio, his entire family had been floored. Once they had picked themselves up again, they had mostly refused to speak to him.

Except for Ludwig’s older brother, Gilbert. Gilbert thought his baby brother’s artistic leanings were amazing, almost awesome even. Having already been informally kicked out the family circle, despite his surprisingly upstanding career in law enforcement, Gilbert had transferred to an office in Munich as soon as he could.

His brother couldn’t be alone, right? And what better company to have than the awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt!

The awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt, 32 years old and single, who lived in an apartment in his brother’s backyard, custom-built just for him ( _Brother, I need the basement for my work… there’s a forge where your bed was now. Please stop clinging to the door_ ).

The awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt, 32 years old and drunk out of his mind, who came staggering up the front walk just as his little brother stepped onto a train bound for Venice.

The awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt, who had forgotten his keys…

This was so not awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone on the kink meme said they wouldn't have expected that Ludwig would be a sculptor. I can see him loving having his own one-man business though. No silly other workers telling him to go home and get some sleep. Nobody but Gilbert to tell him to stop working. And with his sculptures just being a set of complicated torque balances, I can see him loving how _right_ they feel.


	3. We Met on the Internet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Code names make everything cooler as a group of five sneaky thieves plot to rob the famous painter Veneziano.

**Estonia** has logged on.

 **Estonia** : The chatroom has been secured. Shall we discuss our business now?

 **Iceland** has logged on.  
 **France** has logged on.

 **Iceland** : It took you long enough.

 **Hungary** has logged on.

 **Hungary** : Now Iceland, be nice. Would you rather Estonia did a rush job and we were caught before we even began?

 **Iceland** : Let’s just pick a target.

 **France** : So impatient, my dear.  
 **France** : You really need to relax more.  
 **France** : I can help you with that…

 **Estonia** : I agree with Iceland.  
 **Estonia** : We should make this quick. I don’t know how long we’ll be able to stay on the connection like this.  
 **Estonia** : Does anyone know where America is?

 **Hungary** : He should be at home. He said he was going to be working on something great that would help us this time instead of destroying all of my cameras.

 **Estonia** : Drat. He goes into his own world whenever he works.  
 **Estonia** : …  
 **Estonia** : I might be able to hack into his laptop and program something into the speech synth, but who knows what his volume is set to.  
 **Estonia** : This is going to waste so much time…

 **Iceland** : Or France could just call him.

 **France** : Already doing and done, sweetness.

 **America** has logged on.

 **America** : HOW THE HELL DID YOU HAVE MY BROTHER’S CELL NO YOU WEIRDO.  
 **America** : THAT’S NOT OKAY.

 **Hungary** : It’s nice to hear from you again too, America.  
 **Hungary** : How is your bruise healing? ^_^

 **Iceland** : France has everyone’s number.

 **France** : Indeed.

 **America** : LEAVE MY BROTHER ALONE FRANCE. ALRIGHT, NOW THAT I’M HERE WE CAN GET STARTED!!!!!  
 **America** : KALSFDLKJSAF;LKFDJOADALKJKJGSFDSAO GOD MAKE IT STOP WHERE DID THAT NOISE COME FROM11??

 **Estonia** : Ah, sorry about that America. I wasn’t checking the chat thread.  
 **Estonia** : And you should take your headphones off for this anyway. We need to talk business now. Quickly.

 **Iceland** : I second that. Now who gets robbed?

 **Hungary** : …  
 **Hungary** : Just give me a second. ohohohohoho that’ll teach you America  
 **Hungary** : Now, I’ve found several candidates for us, but I’ll give you the one I think sounds the most promising right now.  
 **Hungary** : Have any of you ever heard of the painter Veneziano?

 **France** : Mmm, yes. I like where this is going.

 **Iceland** : Is he rich?

 **France** : Very.

 **America** : I’M STILL REALLY ANGRY.

 **Estonia** : Mind your capslock, America.  
 **Estonia** : So why this Veneziano?

 **Hungary** : I was at one of his showings a few months ago.  
 **Hungary** : He’s such a little cutie.  
 **Hungary** : More importantly, I overheard something very intriguing.  
 **Hungary** : Apparently he only accepts payment in the form of  
 **Hungary** : Solid  
 **Hungary** : Gold  
 **Hungary** : Bars.

 **France** : Delightful! I love working with the eccentric rich!

 **America** : takes one to know one right?  
 **America** : so we’re going to jack this guy’s gold? sounds like FUN.

 **Hungary** : It gets even better.

 **Iceland** : I don’t care.  
 **Iceland** : I vote for this guy.  
 **Iceland** : Can we steal some of his paintings too?

 **Estonia** : What is the protection around the gold like?

 **Hungary** : From what I gathered, it seems like the silly dear keeps it all in his basement somewhere.  
 **Hungary** : Doesn’t trust the banks, something like that.

 **Iceland** : I really second that we get this guy.

 **France** : Don’t be so hasty. Just because he keeps his millions near doesn’t mean that he doesn’t guard them carefully.

 **Hungary** : Oh, he doesn’t.  
 **Hungary** : He doesn’t really care about the money.  
 **Hungary** : Everything I’ve heard says that his brother makes him do it. A little overprotective, you might say.  
 **Hungary** : Sawed-off shotgun style.  
 **Hungary** : And by sawed-off shotgun, I do mean lots of men in suits, shiny guns and fancy cars.

 **France** : Sounds feisty.

 **Iceland** : Sounds rich.

 **Estonia** : Sounds dangerous…

 **America** : sounds like it’ll be totally awesome!!!!  
 **America** : dude, Estonia, think of it as a challenge to your awesoemz leet skillz or something. whatever.

 **Iceland** : We agreed you would never do that again.

 **America** : sorry ice.  
 **America** : i got caught up. do you think we’ll get to have a sweet high speed chase? can i make motorcycles for everybody?  
 **America** : this’ll be SO COOL.

 **Hungary** : Maybe make some powerboats America; he lives in Venice.

 **America** : no wonder he’s got so much money if he lives in nevada.

 **France** : What did we tell you to do when you saw a word you didn’t know, lovely?

 **America** : Googling it now.  
 **America** : …  
 **America** : Sweet OMG GUYS I GET TO BE ON A BOAT.

 **Estonia** : I think we’re all in agreement then.  
 **Estonia** : Three days from now, Venice. Meet at the safehouse. We’ll figure it out from there.

 **Iceland** : I expect to be reimbursed for my plane ticket.

 **Iceland** has logged off.

 **Hungary** : I’ll see you in three days then. Have a good trip everyone!

 **Hungary** has logged off.

 **France** : This sounds like it’s going to be _very_ interesting.

 **Estonia** : Try not to be followed this time.

 **Estonia** has logged off.

 **France** : Has no one any faith in me?

 **France** has logged off.

 **America** : …  
 **America** : guys?  
 **America** : i don’t remember where the safehouse is…

 **America** has logged off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... these five are a large reason as to why I took this prompt. Admit it: they fit the description* PERFECTLY. Also: the code names were America's idea. [3/26/13EDIT: NOT THAT I THINK I EVER USED THEM AGAIN IN THIS FIC AH HA HA HA HA WHOOPS]
> 
> And an extra little tidbit for those that didn't catch it: <http://xkcd.com/530/>
> 
> *Too bad a group of 5 world class thieves finds the idea of **high speed chases** in Venice's water ways, **high tech brilliance** , all around **sneakiness** , and, of course, **the reward** should they succeed, **too tempting** to not heist.


	4. American Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred F. Jones didn't always know where he was supposed to be, but he got by anyway.

Alfred F. Jones was a hero. Kind of. If you took out all the parts where he did illegal stuff and stuff that endangered the lives of everyone around him, what was left over was just about as heroic as it got. It was hard explaining this to other people, so by the time he had turned 25, Alfred had stopped trying.

He didn’t like putting down roots.

Staying in one place for too long didn’t sit well with Alfred. He had 50 different places to live across America, 51 if you counted the grimy dive he had the keys for in DC, but none of them were home. The place that came closest was his half-brother Mattie’s house in Montreal. But Mattie had his own life to live, and even banter and breakfasts couldn’t nail Alfred down for long.

Alfred was American. His original passport even said so, although he didn’t get much use out of that thing anymore. Mostly it lived in a drawer, in his room, in his brother’s basement. Like a reminder ( _Hey Alfred! Alfred F. Jones! You don’t know where to go? You don’t know where you are? That’s stupid. You’re right here_ ).

When he’d been a kid, Alfred had known with absolute certainty that he wasn’t going to end up like his parents. That had screwed up a lot of his earlier decisions, because all-in-all his parents were decent people. Really, Mr. and Mrs. Jones were average, decent, hardworking people.

Average people… horrible parents.

By the time Child Protective Services had made a proper case file for Alfred F. Jones and Matthew Williams, Alfred was already 16 and halfway through his emancipation paperwork. It helped that he had a stable apprenticeship to a gruff old mechanic who lived down the road and that Mattie was so good in school. But still, by the time they had gotten their own place, Mattie seemed like he was fading away into nothingness and Alfred had an unhealthy dislike of everyone over 30.

When Mattie was 19, after a year of the brothers working as hard as they could, the two finally saved up enough money for Mattie to go to a proper college. There was barely enough money for even that, but when Alfred found the flyers for the McGill Psychology department under Mattie’s pillow he knew he had a tough decision to make.

Mattie was really good at understanding other people. He could get inside their heads and help them when they didn’t even know that they needed it. Alfred could attest to that.

So on a balmy day in early August, he brought his brother and all of his brother’s things to the bus station. He left with two pages of classified ads he had found in a recycling bin. He’d need a roommate now, after all.

Three days later he met Toris Lorinaitis.

Three years later, he finally finished his piecemeal, scrabbled-together community college degree. Every student was allowed to have up to two tickets for family members to attend the graduation ceremony. When the energetic Alfred F. Jones reserved one seat, his tactless friends ( _acquaintances? Something else?_ ) asked, “Oh hey Jones, why d’you need one of those? Is that for your mom? Your dad? I don’t remember you ever talking about them.”

Alfred only grinned his megawatt grin. When he nodded, he was only half joking.

It was through Toris that Alfred first met Eduard von Bock. Alfred had been working on the hardware for a robot. Nothing fancy, it was just one of his little hobbies. But he couldn’t seem to get the programming right on the darn thing. Programming was languages, was words: those things his parents always used to tear him down ( _we’ll always be here for you, kiddo_ ).

The long and the short of it was that one day Toris came back from the grocery store to find Alfred hitting his head repeatedly against the wall, screaming about

**“ONE!”**

_BANG._

**“FUCKING!”**

_CRASH._

**“SEMI-COLON!”**

It was a testament to the perseverance of Toris Lorinaitis that he didn’t just walk straight out the door again. Instead, he made his roommate some cocoa and got out a little black book of phone numbers he never thought he’d need again.

Toris waited a day before calling his cousin. He… really didn’t want to call Eduard at all, actually. He wanted to burn the number, burn the whole damn book. But Alfred had been so nice to him over the past year and Alfred needed his help. Alfred needed Toris’s help, and it was within Toris’s power to help him.

So Toris dialed Eduard’s number for the first time in two weeks, and for the first time in two years he didn’t hang up after the first ring.

Eduard didn’t live anywhere near America, but his English was better than Alfred’s and the two of them were able to converse well enough through emails. For about a month, Alfred tinkered away at his robot friend while Eduard spent his spare moments writing up the little guy’s brains. After the world’s first robotic land whale was finished, Alfred and Eduard stopped talking and Toris slept better at night.

It wouldn’t be until almost ten years later that the wayward Alfred F. Jones got an email from Eduard von Bock again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The semi-colon thing is actually quite close to my heart. I'm talking to you, **JAVA**. Also: so I do this procrastination thing, right? Well right now, this story is my time-waster of choice. Good for stalkers, bad for my lab reports. Anyone have some work ethic to spare? On another note, there are only seven or so more introduction parts to go! Huzzah!


	5. Raivis...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The life of crime is the only life Eduard von Bock has ever known.

Eduard von Bock was helpful, respectful and honorable. Except for when he wasn’t. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be all of those things, or that he wasn’t capable of them. It was just that since age 13 he’d been involved with a hardcore Russian crime syndicate. That sort of upbringing did nasty things to a person’s mental health.

When little old ladies needed assistance crossing the street, Eduard’s first instinct was to calculate how helping out could benefit him. Jaded at 15, he could no longer tell respect from fear or honor from sadistic whims. By his mid-twenties, Eduard needed pills to sleep.

That he bought them with money he got from helping sell a different kind of pill ( _powders, too_ ) to kids on the street made him feel sick. He still slept.

As a dusty kid with eyes that were just a little too big for a teenager, Eduard had been the unit’s new intelligence recruit. At first they had just made him their scrawny little messenger boy. Underfed and quiet, he was useful for gathering information on the streets. He listened to the chatter of prospective clients and carefully noted the hurried whispers of suspected traitors within other branches of the syndicate. By his third month on the job, the decision makers learned something fascinating about Eduard. Something that made him special.

Eduard was a genius, a child prodigy that the gang had gotten for free. All they’d had to do was pluck him out of the cardboard box that had been his home that week. They were so lucky. Eduard was too, in a way. Because he was so intelligent, so good with computers and logic, he was still alive. Otherwise he might have ended up like Raivis. _Oh Raivis._

The first time Eduard was called to headquarters by the leader of the branch was also the first time he was ever allowed to hold a laptop. He had seen them before, had tentatively investigated their older counterparts back when he used to have to ‘get lost’ in libraries, if only to have somewhere warm to sleep. But he’d never held one in his arms before. He’d never had one of his own, and even though he knew that he’d have to do terrible things with this gift that wasn’t really a gift, he still smiled.

Maybe there was something to this life of crime, he thought, 13 and stupid. _It can’t be all that bad. It’s not like I’ll ever have to see… bad things. Or anything like that. They just want me to break codes. It’s just words._

Exactly one year later, Eduard cradled the shaking, bleeding body of his almost-friend Raivis (“ _just R-r-raivis, mister”_ ) in his arms. Eduard had been told to crack a security system. He didn’t know why, didn’t want to know, and so he put every effort into doing what he had been told. Raivis, not so intelligent, not so good with computers and logic, had been assigned Eduard’s lookout. Everything that could have gone wrong did, that night, and suddenly Raivis was coughing up blood and staring at nothing just beyond Eduard’s face. Just as suddenly, Raivis was gone.

There were background noises ( _“We have to leave. Now. C’mon kid.”_ ). All Eduard really remembered was that at 13 he had been a naïve idiot and at 14 he was a genius, but still an idiot. And Raivis was dead. And he was being dragged out of the warehouse by sharp blue eyes and angry hands. But none of that mattered, because his best ( _only_ ) could-have-been friend had been shot in the stomach right in front of Eduard’s still too big eyes.

Tino Väinämöinen had been part of the Eduard’s circle for a few months. He’d been transferred down from a higher branch for whatever reason, and the gangsters that Eduard worked for had been ecstatic to have him. As the resident sharpshooter, he was known as the Blue-Eyed Death. Sometimes just the Blue Death. Sometimes just “I think we’re being watc— _glurg_.” Tino was good at what he did.

On the night that Raivis died, two people escaped from the syndicate. One of them was Raivis. The other should have been Eduard, but he was still 14 and stupid. So while Tino swore and spat at the suited men that surrounded them, Eduard shrank. When Tino cleared out his bunk and said, “You, kid. Genius kid. You don’t belong here, this place is disgusting. I can get you out,” Eduard had practically died of shock. But while Tino stormed away into the night, rifle in hand, Eduard stayed behind.

This was the only life he knew how to live.

Eventually, Eduard grew up. He lived and he learned. He found out that he’d had parents at some point, and that he still had a cousin. He found out where Tino had ended up living. He got promoted. He almost forgot what Raivis’s death smelled like.

One day, out of the blue, the former Blue Death was visited by a distinguished hacker; the best that any Russian gang could boast of. Eduard von Bock didn’t have many chances to visit his old friend Tino anymore. Technically Eduard was supposed to be keeping track of the former Blue Death, taking note of plots, but Eduard thought that sort of paranoia was ridiculous.

Tino couldn’t care less about what the syndicate did now. He had retired away to the border between Sweden and Finland, just a happy little bartender who made good-tasting drinks while smiling. A happy little bartender who had been holding a long knife to the neck of a patron twice his size when Eduard had entered the bar. Tino had gotten clean away from the gangs of Russia for an obvious reason: he was _very_ good at what he did.

No one wanted to mess with the Blue Death when he still knew 30 ways to kill you off the top of his head. Locals didn’t see that side of him so much, only glimpses when they got drunk and started to break things in the bar. Then they usually got the handle of a well sharpened puukko to the temple. Tino’s boss didn’t let him use anything other than blanks in his rifles, so at some point he had stopped bothering bringing his guns to work.

Eduard fleetingly wondered, as he stepped all the way into the bar, why this scene felt so normal to him. He shook the thought away. As ironic as it was, thinking too hard never did him any good.

“Eduard! How are you doing?” Tino asked, as he flipped his knife around, thunked his customer on the head, and let him slide to the ground.

“Ah. I’m doing well. And yourself?”

“Here. I’ll get you something to drink.” Tino turned to the shelf full of glasses behind him. “Oh you know me, I’m doing fine. Berwald’s almost done with the extension on the house. By next summer we should have the guest rooms all finished!”  
  
And then there was Berwald Oxenstierna. He was the only carpenter within 4 towns of the bar where Tino worked, and although he didn’t know it, he was also the main reason why most townspeople didn’t mess with Tino Väinämöinen. The first time someone had taken a disliking to Tino and tried to make something of it had not gone very well. _Tino_ had taken it in stride. But one long stare from Berwald had turned into anxiety attacks and the aggressor’s roof not being shingled for 3 months.

Eventually Tino had been fully accepted into the community. And not much later he had been happily married to his frowning knight, his new, strange little husband. His strange little husband, who was over six feet tall and liked to knit, and cook, and cuddle in the mornings. “So what brings you back here at this time of year, Eduard? Still working for that Braginski bastard?”

“…I’m just checking in, like always. You seem to be doing well for yourself.”  
  
Tino looked like he was going to reply, but for some reason he paused and frowned instead. Eduard turned around, and saw that the reason was a dusty, stringy little kid with nervous eyes. He had just entered the bar and was slinking around to a corner table.  
  
“Hey Tino… that kid _can’t_ be 18 yet.”  
  
Tino gave Eduard a guarded look. “I know he doesn’t look it, but he is. Just barely. I’ve checked.”  
  
“It could have been a fake ID.”  
  
“I think I know what a fake ID looks like, thanks.” With a huff, Tino returned to wiping off a glass. Eduard could tell he kept one eye on the kid, though.  
  
That kid… Eduard didn’t know how, he couldn’t exactly place the feeling, but somehow he knew exactly why the kid in the corner looked so blank everywhere but in the eyes. Without even knowing that he had just met Tryggvi Ármannsson for the first time, Eduard von Bock looked into his eyes and saw a different little kid, from a long time ago.  
  
One word, one word only, pounded in Eduard’s ears as he turned around to finish his drink.  
  
 _Raivis._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I’m sorry I killed Raivis. Secondly, I know Tino’s eyes aren’t blue. But real people don’t have violet eyes and his flag has blue as well as white and artistic license so nyah.
> 
> Also, in response to a couple of comments, I think you guys seriously underestimate my own creepiness level. I mean, this thing’s anonymous; I could be that weirdo on the bus every morning who NEVER STOPS STARING at you. I could be that one guy in the back of class that draws little hearts around your name on his notes. I could be your sister.
> 
> So feel free to be reasonably creepy. I’ll just be creepy back. щ(✧◡✧щ)
> 
> ( _^^^Kept that from the meme 'cause I thought it was funny_ )


	6. Move a Little to the Left (My Camera Can’t Fit Both of You into the Frame)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erzsébet has to find out who those kissing boys are before she can properly find out who she is. Of course.

Héderváry Erzsébet was driven by the pure love of her gentle maiden’s heart. Sometimes she was also driven by a perverse desire to see naked men thrusting into each other, hot and gasping for breath as they clutched at any available piece of their partner’s writhing flesh, making searing eye contact in the last moments before cataclysm, before _ecstasy_ , before –

Whew.

Anyway, sometimes she was also driven by the bus.

Erzsébet grew up in a normal house with loving parents. In her younger days she’d been a carefree tomboy, getting into spats with the neighborhood boys but fully expecting to become a housewife when she grew up. Just like her mother.

Her parents were proud of her.

Then Erzsébet went to college in Budapest. It was there she fell in love for the first time. Her love became her passion became her life, and eventually she devoted all of her time to her beloved photography. Originally she had focused on landscapes; Hungary was a beautiful country. Ever since that summer in Germany when she was 8, and who cares how old he was, when whoever-he-was told her that the north of Germany was superior to every other place on the planet _duh_ , Erzsébet had wanted to prove to the world just how amazing her homeland could be!

This lasted for a while, until she met two foreigners during her third year in the capital. Feliks Łukasiewicz and Francis Bonnefoy were both blonde and outgoing, but besides that they were as different as a horse and an orange. Feliks had come to Hungary as a young clothing model who was quickly gaining notoriety for his work. And for his mannerisms: wherever he had learned his English… Erzsébet didn’t base her judgments on such trivial things, but plenty of other people did.

Including the photographer who was supposed to be shooting Feliks, that one day in March. Erzsébet had been out and about in the heart of the city, taking artistic shots in black and white for one of her classes. She had seen the two of them by the statue in Vörösmarty Square; one was a fellow Hungarian, loaded down with cameras and baggage. The other was a shorter blonde foreigner. The two seemed to be fighting.

Erzsébet ducked behind a low stone wall on the other edge of the lawn and viewed the scene through her camera lens; maybe the pair would come to blows! Maybe they would hug and make up dramatically! Eventually the shouting got loud enough that she could hear what was being said all the way over behind her wall.

“Like, I told you fifty million times, the lighting here’s totally wrong for what they want the ad to be like. We should totally be going back towards the river by now. That one square with the fountain was, like, perfect to the extreme for what they wanted.”

_“Who is the photographer here?”_

“Urgh. I’ve, like, been telling you _all day_ that I don’t speak Hungarian. Is that like so totally hard to understand?”

“…Just. Stop. Speaking.”

“See! I, like, knew you could, like, speak English all this time! That was _sooo_ rude of you.”

So maybe they hadn’t started throwing punches yet. The pair probably wouldn’t, but Erzsébet started taking pictures anyway. The other grumpy photographer was so-so… but that model. He was perfect, vibrant, movement, flowing even when he was standing still. When the older photographer had finally had enough of Feliks’s force of personality, and stormed off, Erzsébet summoned her courage and came out of hiding.

“I like your shirt.”

“Ohmigod, really? I totally just bought it yesterday. There’re some pretty good places around here; more than I would have thought, but – oh! Like, totally freaking rude of me. I’m Feliks.”

She smiled. “Erzsébet.”

In that moment, a pair of lifelong friends was born.

It was Feliks that made Erzsébet appreciate the male form. He looked good, and he knew it. That sort of confidence was appealing, and shooting it was a thrill Erzsébet had never felt before, not even when she had first picked up a camera. Her photographs of Feliks would never make it into any magazine, not after his editor sent over a professional ( _with a better temper_ ) from Poland. But that didn’t matter to her.

Feliks’s stay in Budapest marked a second change in Erzsébet’s life. While her rising obsession with photography didn’t wane in the slightest, it changed its course. All of a sudden, Erzsébet couldn’t get enough of people. Other people, and their fascinating habits and walks and everything else, became Erzsébet’s life.

Francis Bonnefoy came to the city just as Feliks left it.

Francis was a not-quite transfer student. At least, that was what he told students when he showed up on their campuses, and it was almost true. Francis came from an old French family that had enough money to enable him to exchange countries like gloves. He was as transient as the wind and the rain. And as he told every person he met, male or female, classically or uniquely beautiful, he was a student of _love_.

Francis could make himself look good, and he knew it. No matter the person, if given the right time and preparation, Francis could get them to see something enchanting in himself. His spells never lasted for more than a few days, but witnessing one when it was at its peak… that was what had caused the third and final great change in Héderváry Erzsébet.

It was Francis that made Erzsébet appreciate the _male-on-male_ form. He had come to The Hungarian University of Fine Arts in June, looking for a different kind of fine art. He found plenty of willing subjects… and Erzsébet. She had been the first woman he had seen on campus and in between his first casual greetings ( _“My beautiful flower… are you doing anyone tonight?”_ ) and the resounding slap that followed ( _“How dare you sully my maiden’s innocence!”_ ) two new allies were made.

Because Francis loved to love Erzsébet’s classmates. And Erzsébet was both exhilarated and alarmed to learn that she loved to watch Francis loving them. It all went downhill from there.

The first things Erzsébet ever really stole were a moment and a photograph, both at the same time. It was also the first time she ever climbed into the ventilation shafts at school to watch the still life models getting it on in art studio 33B. Two masculine forms entwined in quiet darkness, muscles stretching and desks creaking. Their light sighs the only sounds to be heard, beyond the rapid thrumming of his heart under _his_ hand. _Mmmm_ , good memories.

Francis had only been gone a week and Erzsébet didn’t know who she was anymore. Had she ever? Héderváry Erzsébet didn’t do things like place cameras in storage rooms to record sculpture students carve something molten and exquisite out of a human canvas. And she definitely didn’t peep into people’s windows! Her parents, blissfully unaware of the changes in their daughter, didn’t really understand her attachment to art in the first place, but tried to be supportive. She was their little Erzsi, after all.

But she couldn’t be their little Erzsi. She was something new. Héderváry Erzsébet was a nice young Hungarian girl who was going to marry a nice young Hungarian boy one day, take his name, lose her own and bear him children. But Erzsébet didn’t want to be that girl anymore; she had discovered a whole new world in Budapest, both inside and outside of herself. And she didn’t feel like losing it.

She had something to prove, she knew she did, she just… didn’t know _what_ yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erzsébet’s POV is really easy to tell apart: occasionally she slips off into bad pseudo-porn fantasies. I couldn’t resist. It's good practice too; smutty things are harder to write than I expected.
> 
> Also, I’ve been learning a lot about names and different naming conventions from this story; it’s very interesting! It makes my country’s conventions feel really boring. Double also, Google Earth is really great for stalking places. It’s hard to place a scene if you’ve never been there, but with Google Earth you can be! Ah, technology.


	7. Ég hata líf mitt. Jeg hater livet mitt. I hate my life.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Lying isn’t good for you. Eat more fish' are 8 of the best words to live by, especially when you're being chased around Europe by a terrifying Dane.

Tryggvi Ármannsson was flat broke. Plain and simple.

He hadn’t always been poor. At some point back in his hazy memory there was a house and a boat and lots of fish on Sundays. But those memories were so abstract that he might as well have invented them himself, after seeing one too many ads on television. For the most part, Tryggvi had been poor no matter how hard he worked.

He did work hard.

But he hadn’t needed to work at all, far away in the past. The first memories he definitely knew were real were of his brother’s retreating back as he headed off to work each morning. Tryggvi wouldn’t find out until much later, but his brother had made all of their money by gambling every day.

He’d been very good at it, so good that Tryggvi hadn’t known what was going on at all.

Every day Tryggvi’s brother would leave Tryggvi alone in their apartment, give him the same 5 tasks to do, and then calmly walk away. The first task was to read 2 newspapers, cover to cover. Tryggvi’s brother brought them back every evening, for Tryggvi to practice on the next day. They might be crumpled, or stained, or wet, and they were definitely always several days behind. But there was always one in Norwegian and one in English waiting for Tryggvi in the mornings.

Those morning newspapers were how Tryggvi learned to read and write. He discovered the world in their pages, and learned about other subjects like math _on_ their pages. Notebooks were too expensive. So were schools. Tryggvi hadn’t minded learning out of the papers… he’d just wished his brother would have brought back an Icelandic one once in a while. Just because his brother wasn’t Ármann’s son too didn’t mean that it wasn’t important to Tryggvi. Even years later, Tryggvi would be embarrassed that he didn’t know how to read or write his own native language.

The second and third tasks were easy things he did as breaks in between the newspapers. Task number 2: clean the apartment. Task number 3: Make yourself lunch and dinner, Tryggvi. The fourth and fifth tasks went together much like tasks 2 and 3 did. Task number 4: always answer the phone and write down exactly what the person on the other line says. Task number 5: never open the door for anyone. Tryggvi had thought those last two tasks were weird, but he had done what his brother had told him to do. Because he loved his brother.

But one day his brother didn’t come back. Tryggvi waited for him. To pass the time, he reread the old papers. The telephone didn’t ring, but Tryggvi dutifully cleaned like always, and fed himself like always. It wasn’t any lonelier than usual, but the food was running low. And… and his brother had never been this late before.

On the third day of being alone, there was a loud knock at the apartment door. Tryggvi remembered task number 5 and hid behind the couch in the living room. The knocking continued without pause, growing louder and more insistent, until all of a sudden there was only silence. Tryggvi didn’t even trust himself to breathe…

Minutes passed.

And then the door exploded.

Or. More specifically, one moment there was a door, and the next there were quite a lot of splinters and a tall terrifying man holding a tire iron.

“Whoops. Sorry kid. Forgot where your bro kept his keys. Had to improvise.”

That was how Tryggvi met the Dane. It was also the day Tryggvi started cursing his life regularly, in fluent Icelandic, Norwegian and English. The Dane didn’t tell his name to Tryggvi, barely even explained who he was as he tossed the remnants of the door and the tire iron off to the side. He told Tryggvi plenty of other things, though.

Apparently Tryggvi’s parents, Ármann and his wife, had seen fit to get into millions of Kroner worth of trouble with a local gang before they had gone and died. Tryggvi and his brother had only inherited their debt. Around that point, Tryggvi had learned about his brother’s gambling. He’d also learned that his brother “was a real ice cold bitch. I mean, it was just that one time… guys do that sort of thing all the time together!”

While that comment made Tryggvi concerned all around, he was mostly concerned with the word ‘was.’ So his brother was dead. That was new. He would not cry in front of a stranger. He would _not_.

As the Dane kept speaking, Tryggvi learned that the 50 million Kroner debt was all on his shoulders. Maybe he’d let himself cry a little bit.

Then the Dane proposed the game:

“I’d feel like such an asshole extorting money from a seven-year-old. I mean, it’s not like you could do much; you wouldn’t even make anything working as a call boy. You don’t look all that bendy…”

Tryggvi saw his short life pass before his eyes.

“But how’s this for an idea? You start running, and if I catch you you either have to give me 5,000 Kroner or I get to beat you up! Doesn’t that sound like fun? I won’t even kill you, ‘cause that’d be really boring, right? What do you say?”

It had been kind of a boring life, come to think of it. His brother had only managed to find weird little arts rags lately. Tryggvi had been reading underground Oslo play reviews for the past three days. Maybe this was a hallucination.

“No deal? Really? How about this: I’ll give you a discount if you pay in Euros instead. And I promise not to shoot you, maybe!”

By that point, Tryggvi curled up on the floor and bawled.

Five years later he was not much taller, considerably twitchier, and sleeping on a park bench in Haparanda, Sweden. It was damn cold out, but Tryggvi liked it there. For one, it took longer for the Dane to find him in Sweden. It was almost as though he was afraid of the place.

That night in Haparanda almost killed him: he had no protection from the January weather, no food and no fire. At some point in the evening he passed out from the cold, and at some point in the morning he awoke to the smells of birch wood and coffee. He sat up, upsetting the bright blue blanket that had been covering him, and turned at a sudden noise…

Only to come face-to-face with one Berwald Oxenstierna, who had stumbled a little while bringing in a hot breakfast for the half-dead looking kid he had dragged out of a snow bank the night before. Tryggvi passed out again.

When he awoke for the second time, he noticed that he had been moved to an overstuffed chair and that the Tall Scary Swedish Man was nowhere in sight. But there was food in front of him, so Tryggvi didn’t really care about the particulars. As he was finishing up his meal, someone knocked at the door of what Tryggvi realized was a sort of workroom. If all of the half-carved tables and chairs were anything to go by.

That knock reminded him of another knock, one he’d heard five years before, and Tryggvi took a moment to curse the Dane under his breath. That moment was all he had before the Tall Scary Swedish Man re-entered the room. But the man barely even looked at him this time; he just sat down by one of the rocking chairs and started scraping at one of the legs.

Tryggvi had seen some weird things in his life. This wasn’t the weirdest. Not by far. That didn’t stop it from still being _weird_.

The Tall Scary Swedish Man was the first to break the silence ( _Tryggvi would learn later that this was_ incredibly _uncharacteristic of him_ ).

“You can go.”

“…what?”

“You can go. If y’want.”

The Tall Scary Swedish Man was speaking heavily accented English at him. Tall Scary Swedish Man thought he was a tourist. Tryggvi felt insulted. He responded in neutral Norwegian. “Where am I supposed to go?”

The Tall Scary Swedish Man switched languages without a hitch.

“Home.”

Now was the time for Tryggvi to use his sob story: he’d thought it up himself. “Can you loan me any money? My brother’s very sick. I’m the one who has to pay his hospital bills.” It was a good story. And it kept him out of the orphanages.

The Tall Scary Swedish Man gave him a _look_ ( _Tryggvi would later learn that Mr. Oxenstierna’s face was just like that most of the time_ ).

“Do you?”

“Erm. Yeah. In Euros, if you have any. I know this is Sweden and all, but…”

The Tall Scary Swedish Man ended up giving Tryggvi a 50 Euro note, an extra meal and a business card. The card had a name and a phone number on one side. On the other was a handwritten note, with the message:

_Lying isn’t good for you. Eat more fish._

Tryggvi took those words to heart. Even after Mr. Oxenstierna moved to a smaller village in the far north of Sweden, Tryggvi would still try and visit him as often as he could. The Dane _still_ took weeks to find Tryggvi when he went to Sweden. And Mr. Oxenstierna always fed Tryggvi, and gave him a warm place to stay in his workshop. And gave him Euros. And usually didn’t bother him much, and when he did, he always gave Tryggvi good advice, like “Watch out. Coffee’s hot.” Or “Looks like rain. Better get inside.”

But Tryggvi couldn’t live in Mr. Oxenstierna’s workshop forever. Mr. Oxenstierna might have been tall and Swedish and not as scary as he’d once seemed, actually, but the Dane was also tall, and was still really _really_ scary. Tryggvi didn’t want Mr. Oxenstierna to get hurt, especially not after he’d just gotten married.

That had really surprised Tryggvi; he’d walked into Mr. Oxenstierna’s shop one evening, like he always had, and some blonde guy had had the nerve to shove a rifle in his face! Tryggvi had responded by passing out. He seemed to do that a lot around Mr. Oxenstierna’s home. But this time he had an excuse: he was very sensitive to firearms being pointed at him, after the Dane had broken his promise once.

Tryggvi had learned about Mr. Oxenstierna’s marriage to the Rifle-Wielding Maniac after he had woken up. The Rifle-Wielding Maniac’s name was actually Mr. Väinämöinen, and he was very nice and tended the local bar quite often and made a pretty good Screwdriver when he felt like it. Tryggvi had learned all of this while stalking Mr. Väinämöinen to make sure that he was good enough for Mr. Oxenstierna. Also to make sure that he wasn’t the type of house-wifey who would stop Mr. Oxenstierna from giving Tryggvi a place to sleep and whatever extra Euros he had, every time Tryggvi ‘visited.’

Mr. Väinämöinen most definitely wasn’t.

So Tryggvi left with the assurance that he could always come back again. He liked that feeling.

A little while later saw Tryggvi in Brussels. He’d been caught only the month before in Amsterdam, but luckily he’d had the Euros to pay for his escape. The gambling talent wasn’t hereditary, but Tryggvi was beginning to pick up a thing or two in his travels. It was safe to say that Brussels changed his life about as much as Haparanda had. Maybe a bit more. Brussels was where Tryggvi met Francis Bonnefoy. It wasn’t like he was going to forget that anytime soon.

He had been minding his own business, that day, just milling about in a public square, pick-pocketing from the stupid tourists. He was completely out of Euros at that point, and he could just _feel_ the Dane closing in. Sometimes Tryggvi could swear that the Dane found him days before he’d ever appear to collect his money. The Dane liked to taunt him. Apparently it was more fun that way. If it was, Tryggvi wouldn’t know.

He had gotten several wallets by mid-afternoon, nothing too special, and he was about to move on to a different plaza when he made the second greatest mistake of his life – no, the third. The greatest mistake of his life was probably not just jumping out of his window back when the Dane had first knocked on his door. Tryggvi committed the third greatest mistake of his life by sliding his little hands down the back trouser pocket of a well-dressed, well-distracted Frenchman.

For his troubles, Tryggvi got the thickest wallet he had ever seen. He also got a swift return grope and a phone number slipped into his own back pocket before the man disappeared into the crowd. Leaving behind a stunned Tryggvi, who proceeded to make the second greatest mistake of his life later that evening, when he called the number and made arrangements to see the rich stranger again ( _Tryggvi was bendier these days. And as desperate as ever for cash_ ).

Upon his arrival at the shady apartment that the stranger had specified, a gun was shoved into Tryggvi’s face. Again. So he passed out. Again.

This time he awoke to a gun still being pointed at his face. The stranger, no, he had introduced himself as Francis Bonnefoy by this point, was not holding the gun. He was lounging off to the side, looking as though he hadn’t a care in the world ( _bastard_ ). The angry man holding the gun turned out to be Francis’s bodyguard _slash_ butler _slash_ babysitter, Vash Zwingli. But Tryggvi didn’t commit all of this to memory until later, much later. Definitely not until after the guns had been put away.

“You interest me,” Francis started. Vash remained silent.

This couldn’t be going anywhere good for Tryggvi.

“And I love being interested. Whatever you are running from, don’t worry about it. You will work for me now.”

In a fight between the Dane and this Bonnefoy character… either way, Tryggvi cursed his life.

“Your primary job will be, of course, to interest me. Failing that, you will _find_ things to interest me.”

Tryggvi could see his life flashing before his eyes again. He hoped that Mr. Oxenstierna would miss him, when he never came back to Sweden.

“Now, Vash, untie him. My dear… your first job will be to find a beautiful lady to entertain me tonight.”

And that was how it began. From then on, Tryggvi had the protection of the Bonnefoy family… but he lived at the whim of Young Master Francis. It wasn’t much different from before, except for now he got to wash more often. And he _still_ had to watch out for the Dane. Somehow Francis had taken it into his head that Tryggvi’s situation was a delightfully entertaining game of international cat-and-mouse. At least he paid Tryggvi to run around Europe now.

It was a strange, stressful life that Tryggvi Ármannsson lived. He hoped that his parents and brother were proud of themselves, wherever they were, for landing him into all of it. And when one day Francis told him about a ‘job’ Tryggvi was to help with, he found himself seriously wondering whether he should have just tossed himself out of that apartment window after all.

He _hated_ organized crime. The irony was not lost on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is Google translated, so if you know Icelandic or Norwegian, please let me know if it's wrong?
> 
> Here, have some Iceland. Actually, have quite a bit of Iceland. I didn’t really expect to have this much to say about the little guy. I’m pretty sure I won’t have half as much to say about Francis. But at least after Francis, the story-moving introductions will start!
> 
> And to anyone who was expecting vowel-less apostrophe-speak from Berwald, I give an explanation I saw a while back: these are humans in modern times. Kids with speech impediments get sent to speech therapy, and while that might not work for everyone, it worked for Berwald.
> 
> Also: Someone wished they had a shirt with Berwald's fish comment on it, [so...](http://tinypic.com/r/2yl9ymt/6)
> 
> Double Also: SOMEBODY AWESOME DREW A REAL VERSION OF BERWALD'S FISH SHIRT! Find it [here](http://i40.tinypic.com/31478sw.jpg). Less than three forever.


	8. Just a Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis sits alone at night.

Francis Bonnefoy was a cultured gentleman and an earnest student of love. His friend, well… his _keeper_ Vash would say that Francis was a bored rich kid. Both were right.

Francis had many trivial connections all around the world, but few real friends. And as he hadn’t spoken to or heard from those true friends since boarding school… He had Vash! That was **one**! One…

Francis turned to introspection when he didn’t have anything else to occupy himself with. That was the primary reason he surrounded himself with people and places and objects of interest at all times. He confided in no one, not even Vash. Mostly because the things he had to confide were weaknesses, and Francis had acquired the strange habit of surrounding himself with people who didn’t like him very much. Like Tryggvi, his twenty-something errand boy. Or Erzsébet, that vivacious girl who did surveillance projects.

Or Vash, his… oh fine, his _babysitter_.

Or Eduard, the gangster who had introduced Francis to the high-speed world of organized crime. They had met on the internet, which was unusual for Francis. Usually Francis liked to love them face-to-face, and leave them via voicemail. But that evening he had been searching for something different.

He still wasn’t quite sure how he had stumbled on that particular chat room ( _He’d been searching for ‘busty Canadian beauties’_ ). In hindsight, he was very glad he had. Naked pictures could only hold his attention for so long. The intricate planning and the thrill of the chase that went along with a heist… that gave Francis excitement for months on end.

He became the financial backer for Eduard’s group, and even used his contacts to help acquire a few more talents. Like Tryggvi.

Vash had not approved of Francis’s _dalliances_ before. And he certainly didn’t approve of them now. But he had signed a contract for his services with the elder Mr. Bonnefoy, and Vash Zwingli was a man of his word. So Vash followed Francis into bars to make sure he didn’t get drugged, and Vash followed Francis to Venice to make sure he didn’t shame the family name by getting arrested for theft. Or public indecency. _Again._

Francis Bonnefoy was a man of mystery.

A man of excitement.

A man of money.

And sometimes, during those nights when he sat alone, without even the sound of Vash’s footsteps pacing the hallways ( _to stop trespassers from sneaking in, or Francis from sneaking out_ )… sometimes Francis Bonnefoy was just a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet, aka it’s hard to write a 3D Francis and I really wanted to finish this. Yeah. Well, this marks the end of the thief/still intros. The moving ones come up next! Urgh. These things were all only supposed to be one post, subdivided a) through e). So much for _that._


	9. A Shared Interest in Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ludwig arrives in Venice and Feliciano flashbacks to their first meeting.

Light from the rising sun, seeping in through the curtains on the train window next to him, was enough to wake Ludwig. It was really a shame: he liked to get at least 8 hours of sleep before meeting with Feliciano. Less than 8 and his temper would be too short and he might snap at the other man. More than 8 and he would become tired all over again. Ludwig needed his wits about him when he was around Feliciano Vargas.

At all times.

He had been lucky to get to Munich’s central train station by 11:30pm, because as he was well aware, the night train to Venice left at 11:40pm on Wednesdays. It was equally lucky that there had still been a ticket left and just enough time for Ludwig to pay before marching quickly to his seat. Ludwig never questioned why he was always able to catch the train to Venice. Other trains to other places were never quite so available to him. Unless he happened to be meeting Feliciano somewhere besides Feliciano’s spacious home…

Ludwig had decided not to think about it a long time before, and so he didn’t. It was probably some _family_ thing.

Several hours away from where the sun’s rays tickled Ludwig Beilschmidt into wakefulness, his excitable friend surprised the other occupants of his house by already being awake. By still being awake. Yes, that one. Talking to Ludwig the night before had given Feliciano a rush of inspiration and he had been painting the entire night through.

When the men in dark suits checked in on him around 3 in the morning, Feliciano started simultaneously painting and directing the men to make his house spotless. Perfect. Ludwig liked perfect things. Ludwig also liked strange things, like Leberkäsesemmel or whatever it was called. _Ew_. When Feliciano really thought about it, Ludwig actually liked strange things a lot more than he liked perfect things. Just look at his sculpture-thingys!

Or his friendship with Feliciano himself! The artist, despite what most people thought, knew he was fairly eccentric. Even his brother said so when he visited ( _God, Feliciano, you fucking weirdo, get over here and put some pants on_ )! His brother’s men, the ones who stayed in Feliciano’s house and helped take care of it ( _him_ ), always disagreed.

“You’re not weird Mr. Feliciano, you’re just unique!”

“Yeah, you’re really special! The Boss thinks so too; don’t listen to what he says.”

The men his brother Lovino sent up to Venice were all very nice, but sometimes they could get a little stifling. They’d say things like, “The Boss doesn’t want you going to Paris next week.” Or, “How about you stay away from that dinner party you were invited to, Mr. Feliciano. You can have a picnic in the mansion instead!” In hindsight, the men usually had pretty good suggestions, since that party had been crashed by some mean people who didn’t like Feliciano’s brother halfway through the night.

Feliciano had read about it in the paper the next day.

But right now he was telling one of the men to prepare the forge and get all of Ludwig’s tools ready for him so he could start putting the gold away as soon as he got to the house. The sooner Ludwig was done the sooner the gold could be stored away and the sooner Ludwig could relax and enjoy himself with Feliciano. A perfect plan!

Ludwig didn’t relax enough. He always seemed so stressed out around Feliciano… who couldn’t figure out why. Ludwig should have been _least_ stressed around Feliciano, since that was the only time Ludwig stopped working (‘ _Oh is it 6am already, ve? I’ve been painting since 9. Whoops.’_ ). But Ludwig’s strangeness, eternally tense demeanor and powerful work ethic were probably a good thing.

They were why Feliciano and Ludwig had met.

It was funny… there had been so many chances for the two to meet as children. Both had taken piano lessons from a young virtuoso, Roderich Edelstein. Both had driven their teacher to hysterics: Feliciano because he had talent but never practiced and Ludwig because he played with no feeling. Both had remained friends with Roderich ( _on the condition that they never touch a piano again. Ever_ ).

But neither knew about the other until one day Roderich played a concerto with the Munich Symphony Orchestra. Feliciano had come up from Venice to see the performance, and was left to his own devices while Roderich did his dress rehearsal.

Through a combination of luck and practice, Feliciano managed to get himself separated from the men sent to watch over him in That Dangerous Germany. But then… he didn’t know what to do. At all. So he found what looked to be an art district and lost himself in it even further.

Ludwig had been walking back to his brand new studio from getting lunch. His life still felt confusing and new, and he still hadn’t quite settled into living with his brother. But he felt good about his decision to move. He liked making his own decisions. It didn’t happen often enough. So when he saw a lost-looking young man standing in front of his studio, staring teary-eyed down at his untied shoelaces, Ludwig made a decision.

He stooped down in front of the man ( _Man? Boy? He didn’t look much older than Ludwig…_ ) and quickly and efficiently tied the other’s shoes. As he finished and stood up, Ludwig had the fleeting thought that maybe normal people didn’t tie the shoelaces of strangers. That was all he had time to think before the stranger engulfed him in an enormous hug.

“Oh thank you! I was just looking through all of the shop windows when I saw the thingy in this one and thought it was so pretty looking, ve, but I couldn’t understand how it stays up which made me really confused. Ve, but then I looked down and saw that my shoes had come untied and I didn’t know what to do because _they_ aren’t around to help me right now but then you were here! Thank you so so **so** much, ve!”

Ludwig’s head spun. “It’s just torque.”

The stranger loosened his embrace. “Ve?”

“How it stays up. It’s just a balance of –”

“So you’re the artist?!” the stranger interjected. He peered at the sign by the studio door. “Herr Ludwig Beilschmidt. Ve, you’ve got a weird name. It’s kind of cute though!”

This was all too much for Ludwig.

“Yes. This is my studio. Do you have an interest in art?”

The stranger gave Ludwig a strange little smile. “Oh, a little bit…”

Not knowing what else to do, Ludwig turned and entered his shop. Feliciano, already world-famous and on the receiving end of many astonished looks from the other people on the street ( _Ludwig didn’t notice in the slightest_ ), took it as an invitation and followed.

Feliciano liked to think of that day as undeniable proof that he could be sneaky. Not only had he found out that Ludwig also knew Roderich, but he had gotten a phone number too! He set down his brush and looked over at the large 24 hour clock his brother had had installed in his studio. It wasn’t a very pretty clock, but it had really helpful labels, like: _21:00 – You had better have eaten by now, stupid_.

But the clock wasn’t pointing to 21:00 right now… it was pointing to 8:17… and Ludwig’s train got in in 20 minutes!

* * *

Ludwig Beilschmidt was only a little disoriented as he disembarked from the train at 8:35. He didn’t like going to sleep in one city and waking up in a totally different one. But taking the day train always felt like a waste of a day. Unacceptable. Ludwig exited the Santa Lucia station and scanned the plaza in front of him. Sunlight? _Check._ Tourists? _Check_. Half-clothed man running towards him, about to execute a flying jump-hug?

 _Check_.

Ludwig opened his arms to accept Feliciano’s greeting hug and kisses. Resistance, he had learned over the years, was futile. At least Feliciano had remembered his pants. Ludwig made a mental note to remind Feliciano to button his shirt next time, too.

“Ve, you’re here! How was your trip? Was it fun? Did you sleep? Did you miss me? Ve, let’s get going, everything’s ready for you at my house!”

“Feliciano, how many espressos did you have this morning?”

“I’m so happy to see you!” Yes, Feliciano Vargas was a sneaky man.

The pair entered Feliciano’s home about 20 minutes later. “So, ve, I was wondering if you could make them in the shape of little hearts this time?”

“Uh…”

One of the suited men dusting off the parlor turned. “I’m sorry, Mr. Feliciano, but The Boss said it’d be best if you kept the gold in the easily stackable and conveniently transportable bar form.”

Feliciano looked as though his world had ended. Ludwig swiftly moved to correct the damage. “I brought some extra bronze with me. I can mold some hearts out of it, if that would be acceptable.”

Feliciano stopped looking as though his world had ended. He was a man of many talents. “Ve! That’d be wonderful!”

“Then I will get to my work…”

The suited man set down his feather duster. “I will lead Mr. Beilschmidt down to the forge and storeroom, Mr. Feliciano. Please, enjoy your morning.”

Feliciano didn’t know how he could, with Ludwig so close but so busy. He probably wouldn’t even be done with the gold until past siesta time… Hmm… That was right! Feliciano could make him dinner! So he told the men cleaning the floors that he would be painting upstairs all day and then left the house via the kitchen door. Humming, he quickly disappeared down the street, towards the market.

Now what kind of pasta did Ludwig like the best?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would YOU take an almost 9 hour train trip at a moment’s notice? Me neither. That’s dedication. Also, I slipped in some more introductions and flashbacks because I am cruel and unusual. Double also, I wasn’t kidding when I said this was my first fic and foray out of lurkerland. So no matter what, I’d need to make an account to post this beast anywhere else. But all in due time.
> 
> I think it's funny that I _did_ end up going and making an account and posting this beast elsewhere.


	10. Mysterious Phone Call of Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mysterious phone call takes place between two men very much concerned with the Vargas brothers.

His phone was ringing.

“Hello, sir. How was your trip to Florence?”

“I’m still in Florence, actually. I found something that made it _quite_ worth my while to extend my trip. Several somethings, in fact. It’s not like those sticks in the mud back in Rome really want me around anyway.”

“Don’t be so down, sir! They like you a lot, why else would they want to talk to you all of the time? But what did you find in Florence that you liked so much? Some paintings?”

“Guess again.”

“…a museum?”

“ _Triplets_. Footballers on vacation.”

He chuckled. “You’re the same as ever, Mr. Vargas. You like getting to know people so much!”

“And you, boy? I trust you’ve been doing your job properly, but have you been having any _fun_ yourself?”

His face went hot. “…”

“I can feel that blush all the way over here in Florence, kid. Speak up.”

“Well… I’ve been busy, just like you said, sir. I haven’t really had time for anything else.”

“No sex? I couldn’t live like you.”

He choked on his own breath. “When did we start talking about that?! I thought you were talking about football!”

His employer didn’t miss a beat. “Oh. That too, I suppose.”

“I really wanted to, but I haven’t had the time to practice lately. He hasn’t been staying in any one city, and I didn’t want to lose track of him.”

“That’s just like him. I bet he isn’t getting any either. You two make a perfect pair.”

“You really think so?”

“What was that? You’ll have to speak up, I’m not exactly in a quiet place.”

“Oh? Where are you?”

“Guess.”

“…a museum?”

He heard a sigh on the other line. “Kid, if you didn’t hit so hard, I don’t know how you would have lived to be as old as you are.”

“But that’s thanks to you, Mr. Vargas! You hired me. You didn’t have to do that;s I’m not even related to you.”

“Nah, but I of all people should know that that’s not the most important thing. And you’ve got a _great_ ass…”

“Hmm? What was that?”

“Nothing. It’s just such a _waste_ that you’re hung up on some girl all of the time.”

This blush was a little different. “Ah ha… I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Vargas!”

“No matter how much you try, you can’t fool me. I mean, I’m _me_. You’ve been moping and sighing since you were 22! It’s such a waste!”

He frowned. “Now I _really_ don’t know what’s going on…”

“Sorry, sorry. Don’t mind me. Actually, maybe you should introduce her to me at some point. The ladies love me; it’ll win you a lot of points.”

This wasn’t heading in a good direction. “ **No.** I mean, you don’t need to help me, sir. I mean, there’s nothing that you need to help me with, sir. I mean… I don’t think that would work.”

“Fine. Sheesh, you don’t need to get all protective of that lovely little nothing you need help for. That you haven’t needed help for in _7 years_.”

A pause.

“You’re absolutely sure you don’t want her to meet me?”

“I think I’ll be okay, sir. I don’t think… _she_ … would like that very much. If she existed. Because I don’t need help.”

“Sure you don’t. Sounds like a weird girl. Ah well, your loss, kid. You really haven’t slept with her? How long has it been since you’ve had sex? I won’t let one of _my_ men become celibate.”

Another pause.

“Uh.”

A longer pause.

“Why were you calling me, Mr. Vargas?”

“Hmm? You’re still there? Just a second…” He could hear giggling in the background. “Sorry about that; they’re such a lively bunch. But…ah yes! I called you about my grandson, who else?”

“Which one?”

“Oh, the secretly cute one, not the overtly cute one.” 

He almost repeated his question, but that wouldn’t do. “I’m already following him, sir. Don’t you remember? I have been since he started getting all those threats.”

“And you’ve been doing a good job of it too, but he’s hopping out of the country again in a few weeks. I need you to go ahead and wait for him.”

“Really? You don’t usually let me keep following Lovi when he leaves the country!”

“…This is a special case, kid. He’s going on a trip to Spain. I figured that was right up your alley.”

“Really!? It is, it is! I can’t wait!” Maybe he’d even get to hear Lovi speaking _Spanish_ …

A pause.

“You still there, kid?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Just excited?”

“How could you tell?”

“It’s been a while since you’ve had the chance to go home. An old man like me can see these things pretty easily.”

“Spain hasn’t really been home to me for a long time: home is where the heart is! And you’re not an old man yet, sir.”

“And don’t you forget it. Wait… _where the heart is…_ you’re talking about that girl again, aren’t you? I can give you some pointers. All you have to do is ask.”

He panicked a little. Time for a diversion. “What? No! I’m just excited about going back to Spain, really!” Mr. Vargas wasn’t the only smooth one.

“Fine, fine. I can tell when my advice isn’t wanted. Even when it’s very good advice. The kind of advice that women the world over will vouch is _very_ good advice.”

“Don’t be sad, Mr. Vargas. I just… I just need to be able to do this on my own! I can get through it!”

“You and your passion… It’s very inspiring, kid. One of the reasons I picked you off the streets.”

“And because I hit so hard.”

“That too.”

A pause.

“What was I calling about again?”

“…I don’t remember.”

He could hear the giggles subside for a moment. “Oh that’s right. Spain. Thank you ladies.”

“When should I leave?”

“Tonight. I’ll have someone down there to fill in for you by tomorrow. My grandson won’t be arriving until Monday. That should give you all the time you need to secure the area.”

He didn’t like having to entrust Lovi’s safety to other people… “I don’t like having to leave his safety up to other people…”

“He’ll be _fine_. Maybe he’ll even get lucky while you’re away.”

A different sort of panic this time. “You don’t think so, do you!?”

“What? Jealous are you?”

“…of course not.”

“This is the last time I’ll say it… if you really want her to fall for you in the best possible ways then you should just–”

“Thank you for your call, Mr. Vargas! I can’t wait to go to Spain. In fact, I think I’ll start my preparations right now!”

“You’re such an energetic kid. Very well. Keep him safe.”

_Click._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s difficult not to italicize everything the old man says. Also, it should be really obvious who these two are. Really. Double also, there are many sneaky characters in this fill. As there should be in a heist fic. There are different types of sneaky, though. Antonio exhibits the rare ‘not all that sneaky’ form of sneakiness. He’s very good at it.


	11. Secret Agent Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> INTERPOL's secret agents are everywhere. They're passed out on the porch and shivering across the street. Not necessarily at the same time.

A too familiar ceiling. That was what Gilbert found himself waking up to on Thursday, just after noon. It wasn’t so much a proper ceiling as it was the little awning over his brother’s front door, but it was still very familiar to Gilbert. He forgot his keys quite often. He also got hangovers quite often.

_Looks like the awning needs more paint. Should tell Lud about that. Should tell him to turn off the damn sun too…_  
  
Gilbert groaned. Why did everything in the world have to conspire against him after he went out drinking alone? It was the best way to drink! Although, it _was_ nice when his brother came with him. Ludwig always remembered his keys. And supported Gilbert when he couldn’t walk by himself. And let Gilbert into the main house when he wasn’t conscious ( _Gilbert had gotten very good at faking after he’d figured that one out_ ).

Luckily doors couldn’t stop Gilbert Beilschmidt. Not even when he was hungover.

Twenty minutes later saw him drinking his brother’s milk, straight out of the packaging. It served Ludwig right for not opening the door the night before. Or for apparently not being in his house at all. It was as he was just finishing his milk that Gilbert found the note. There was a moment where he felt that curious, non-awesome feeling that he sometimes felt when his brother brushed him off. That weird twisting feeling that he would feel when he drank alone, or remembered his school days. But that feeling passed quickly in the wake of the realization that he potentially had Ludwig’s house all to himself.

_Work trip my ass. I bet he’s just down in the basement sketching up designs really quietly and pretending not to be home. If he thinks I’m going to let him work for 36 hours straight again…_

Gilbert had only been using a chair as an impromptu battering ram ( _”But Luuuuud, I just wanna know what you’re doing down there!”_ ) for a measly 5 minutes when his phone started ringing.

_Duh nuh nuh nuh, duh nuh nuh…_

The annoyance at being interrupted from his fun went away as soon as he processed which ringer was going off. Hey, the Chicken Dance was good music, alright? And since his boss was the one who called him the most often, Gilbert had assigned him the most awesome ringtone.

Actually, Ludwig was the one who called Gilbert the most, but that was usually to try and find where Gilbert was hiding in the house. Gilbert had learned pretty quickly to set Ludwig’s ringtone to Silent. Gilbert learned things pretty quickly, when he wanted to. And when the alternative was being banished to the yard like some dog.

He actually _wasn’t_ a freeloader, for all the sighs his little brother would send towards him when he lazed about the yard. Gilbert just had a really sweet work schedule. When he didn’t have any projects, he only had to go into the office 3 times a week. And when he _did_ have a project, he got to travel around the world ( _all expenses paid_ ) to be an awesome secret agent and shit.

Oh yes, Gilbert Beilschmidt was an INTERPOL field agent. Surprisingly, he was also one of the best. His boss had had the idea, a few years back, that the best way to catch a criminal was to know _exactly_ how a criminal thought. Boss-man had made the call up to _his_ superiors, and had eventually gotten clearance to hire an ‘expert’ in the criminal mind. 

What he got was Gilbert.

Gilbert was born to be a lawyer or something like that. Something boring. So while he had been crawling his way through stuffy Law textbooks at university, he had felt the intense need to turn to outside sources for entertainment. For example, petty crime. The best part was that Gilbert never got caught. Not once. Even now, when he was working for the ‘right’ side of things, he still never got caught.

His little brother had been completely flabbergasted when Gilbert had been hired by the International Criminal Police Organization, instead of being put on one of their watch lists. Their father had fainted. But Gilbert figured this was the perfect job for him. Sure he couldn’t make any arrests, but he got to carry a gun, be badass, and beat other shitty criminals at their own games by being a more badass sort of legal criminal. Who just happened to actually be a good guy! 

_Best. Job. Ever._

He let his ringer play a little longer, and just as his phone was about to go to voicemail, he answered. “Your daily dose of awesome, here… Yeah, yeah, fine. This is Beilschmidt, _sir_. What do you want? I still have 2 days of leave left.”

A pause.

“Venice? Do I get to fly the plane this time? I was really good last time, Boss-man, don’t you remember? I didn’t break _anything_. Nothing important, anyway.”

His boss spoke.

“You think they’re really going to try something in Venice? This isn’t just an excuse to ruin all my vacations, is it?”

His boss spoke a little louder this time, a little angrier.

“… _someone_ can’t take a joke. Fine. I’ll be at the airport in an hour. Gotta make sure my brother’s house is in order. Can’t have any little upstarts trying to break in… Bye.”

_Click_.

His boss was grumpy, sure, but he put up with a lot from Gilbert. And Gilbert could respect that, since he knew he could be a real pain in the ass. Dashing and awesome, yes. But a pain in the ass too. It was the combination, he was sure, that made him so alluring. No one could resist an international man of rugged mystery like him, especially not when he was about to coolly bust a big-time ring of art thieves. 

Those stupid bastards wouldn’t even know what hit ‘em.

\- - - - -

Arthur Kirkland couldn’t feel his toes anymore. Goddamn Moscow. Goddamn assignment in Moscow. Godfuckingbloodydamn _boss_. Arthur couldn’t stand his boss, for a plethora of reasons. The most important being, at the moment, that it was all his stupid boss’s fault that Arthur was freezing his ass off in Russia. His boss just _had_ to accept the Braginski case for their team.

Never mind that whole _departments_ of people who were used to the cold ( _and were fluent in Russian_ ) had spent years trying and failing to bring Braginski down. The wicked grin his boss had pointed towards Arthur when he’d been handing out assignments had sent chills down Arthur’s spine. When he had opened his folder, he had realized why.

He’d been sent to fucking _Russia_. Alone. To try and get information on the Braginski circle. Alone. As Arthur had read through the mission files, he had realized that his boss might even hate him more than he hated his boss. That was before he had been subjected to standing around in the bloody cold for hours. Arthur was once again certain that he hated his boss more.

_Wait on this corner, he says. Your contact will meet you at 7, he says._

It was 8:30 already.

_What a way to spend a Friday night…_

When Arthur’s phone buzzed in his right pocket, it startled him almost to the point where he forgot that he was cold. Almost. Swearing under his breath, which he could _see_ , Arthur retrieved the gadget from the depths of his parka. He had a new text: 

**yo Old Man, chngin ur plnz. g2 venice NOW. prtnr thr. u suk. :PPPP**

Arthur sighed. It was pathetic that this was normal to him. He was a well-respected field agent for Interpol, a well-respected organization. His job helped bring peace and stability to scores of nations and peoples. But his boss couldn’t even _spell_. The text annoyed Arthur; they always did, from the personal insults to the complete lack of respect for the English language. And yet…even though the world hated him, in general, at least it left him the occasional kindness. Maybe he was just feeling better knowing that soon he could leave all the bloody cold behind him. That was definitely it.

Because, of all things, why did he have to directly answer to his _little brother_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( _transliteration of the txt: Hello Codename ‘Old Man’, I am changing your plans. Go to Venice, now. Your partner is already there. You suck. And now I make silly faces at you_ )
> 
> It's disclaimer/justification time: The Interpol you see before you has been mutated into a heisty spy-movie-type parody of a real organization. Sorry Interpol… So don’t get confused when Interpol = secret agents = INTERNATIONAL MAYHEM. Also: One day you will all answer to COMMISSIONER SEALAND. Also: I’m still sorry Interpol. Triple Also: Short one this time. Probably because the next one'll be quite a bit longer.


	12. The Mafia Isn’t All Croissants and Strudel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovino Vargas is a man who does his job. Which may or may not include supervising a moronic little brother, stalking a stalker, baking and having people killed.

They always sent him their daughters. On the whole that would have been fine with him ( _who was he to say no to spending the evening with a pretty woman?_ ) except usually those same lovely daughters had express instructions from their mothers to go and get knocked up by him. _That_ he wasn’t okay with.   
  
Not so much.   
  
Those nice girls didn’t deserve the sort of life he would give them, never knowing if he would come home. If he was alright. _If he even loved her._ And kids… oh God if there was any good deed he could do it would be to not bring a miniature him into the world. Not his world. No kid deserved to grow up like he had.  
  
So Lovino Vargas would graciously accept invitations to the theatre, would courteously invite any bright-eyed daughter who’d just _happened_ to bump into him in the market to dinner. He’d wine them and dine them, and usually, never see them again until he was wishing them well on their wedding day. A kiss on the cheek, a token threat to the groom on behalf of the family, and then he was gone.  
  
The women in and around the Russo family thought it was both terrible and terribly romantic. Twenty-seven and single was practically a sin after all. They spent idle time guessing who would finally capture his heart ( _Oh look, there he goes with Adriana! I bet she has a chance; they look so good together!_ ). But none of their hopes or guesses ever panned out for more than a month or two.  
  
Adriana had ended up marrying one of Lovino’s men, beginning a very odd trend: of the 14 under Lovino’s employ who were married, 6 men had met their wives after the women had tried wooing their boss. It had become something of a running joke that before a guy working for Lovino Vargas could get hitched, he had to let Vargas _inspect_ the bride.  
  
Lovino just thought it was annoying that he kept being invited to weddings.  
  
Going to weddings was part of his job, true, but that didn’t make it any less annoying. He’d been working for the head of the Russo family since he was 15. His grandfather had been the leader’s best friend when the two were younger. When they had gotten older, the old man had become Mr. Russo’s right-hand man, literally his partner in crime. Lovino, and later on his little brother, had grown up in the arms of some of the most powerful Mafiosi in Italy. They’d practically been family.  
  
Lovino hadn’t been the first to stand out; in truth, it was his brother who had been handed that first package. They’d all seen Feliciano’s talents but Russo wanted to learn if Feliciano could be loyal, could be trusted. After seeing his grandfather come home from multiple particularly nasty knife fights, Lovino hadn’t wanted any of that shit going down even _remotely_ near his little brother. His stupid little brother. His easy-to-tears little brother.

His _little brother_.  
  
Instead, Lovino had snatched the package away from Feliciano, had hopped onto his Vespa, and had sealed his fate. Russo hadn’t bothered with the weird Vargas kid anymore, because that other Vargas kid had potential. He was great for deliveries: a maniac on the road, no one could catch him. And the kid understood loyalty. He did what he had to do, he helped the Russo family, and he stopped others from, regrettably, being unable to do the same.   
  
Lovino had taken over from his grandfather, Romolo Vargas, two years later.  
  
Legally, Lovino Vargas was the owner and head chef of the Vargas Bakery. He’d inherited the place from his grandfather ( _who had crap naming skills_ ), along with his duties to the Russo family when he was 17. Unlike Romolo, however, the younger Mr. Vargas could actually cook. In fact, he could cook quite well. While he didn’t actually get to be in his little shop very often, patrons knew that when they could see Lovino in the back they were in for some of the best bread of their life. Associates knew that when they could see Vargas in the back, some sort of shady deal must be going down.  
  
The muffins knew better than all of the others. When their boss cooked, he was probably just trying to relax.  
  
Well.  
  
They weren’t really muffins. They were supposed to be ‘Mr. Vargas’s assistants’ or ‘Vargas’s men’ or whatever stupid euphemism Russo was going with that week. But in his head, Lovino had started calling them his Evil Muffins from the very beginning. It was all Blueberry’s fault.   
  
Lovino had inherited Blueberry from his grandfather ( _the man’s name was actually something-or-other Russo, somebody’s third cousin. Maybe fourth_ ), to be Lovino’s own second. At 17, Lovino had mostly still been a kid inside, so when the man had approached him with the pastry, wearing a blue tie, the name had just kind of stuck.  
  
The other nicknames had just followed from there. Ten years later Blueberry was still Lovino’s second, and still did most of the bookwork for their little branch. Apple Cinnamon had married Adriana after she had realized that no, Lovino hadn’t lost her number and no, he was never calling her back. And Banana Nut… Banana Nut was a little strange, actually, but very good at both hauling sacks of flour and tossing guys into the river. Lovino was almost sort of proud of his muffins. They did their jobs well, both inside and outside of the bakery. They were polite. They were efficient. They respected his word as law. They protected his brother… And they knew Lovino well enough not to disturb him when he cooked.  
  
Apple Cinnamon, like many of the men, smoked when he needed to calm down. None of them were sociopaths; a human being could only be whole for so long after seeing so much death. The nicotine helped some. Others fought, or ran. Blueberry read poetry. Banana Nut gardened. Lovino Vargas didn’t care much about plants, and he rarely understood poetry. And why the fuck would he want to do something that would shorten his lifespan during his _down time_?   
  
No, Lovino cooked.   
  
Sometimes he baked. Sometimes he made 9 course meals. He’d been cooking more than usual in the past year or so, even more often than he got to go to the bakery. He knew exactly why. He’d even admitted it to himself a few months back ( _although he knew the reason had been around for much, much longer_ ).  
  
It was because of _him_.  
  
Because of his stupid fucking stalker.  
  
Lovino had noticed the stranger following him the day after his grandfather had retired and Lovino had taken over ‘the bakery.’ It would have been hard not to notice him: the idiot had spent most of the day blatantly staring at Lovino from across the street. In the next few years, the unsubtle idiot would spend most of his time doing that, whenever he was around. It was… it was mostly just weird. Banana Nut had offered to throw the guy into the river, after a few weeks, but Lovino had declined. His stalker looked harmless. Mostly.  
  
Sometimes the stalker would intersperse the creepy watching part with the dramatically saving Lovino’s life part. When Lovino had been 20, his stalker had saved his life for the 15th time ( _as far as Lovino knew_ ). The Mafioso had just been minding his own business, walking down the street, when the freak had barreled into him at breakneck speed and dragged him down a side alley. Lovino had not appreciated all of the running.   
  
He hadn’t appreciated the bullets either, when they had started raining down ( _stupid competing families_ ).  
  
The two men had run for their lives, twisting and turning through every side street and deserted lane they came across. Eventually, the ominous rumble of the pursuing car had faded away and all that was left was the patter of fleeing feet on stone. The stalker had stopped running first, and that was all it took for Lovino’s brain to catch up with his body and remind him that he wasn’t actually all that athletic.  
  
For a few moments there was silence, punctuated only by the gasping breaths of the two men. And then, Lovino’s creepy stalker decided to make sure Lovino was alright. This included invading Lovino’s personal space.  
  
“Lovi, are you alright? I’m sorry I couldn’t keep them away or warn you in time.” The stalker was running his hands over Lovino’s arms and legs, checking the stationary, sitting man for bullet grazes. All Lovino could think was that this was the first time they’d ever actually spoken, and his stupid stalker had the gall to call him by an endearment.  
  
“I’m _fine_ , you idiot. Get your hands off me!” Lovino was just tired. That’s why he wasn’t moving away on his own. Of course.  
  
“You’re sure you aren’t hurt?” Those eyes looked worried.  
  
“…what do you think?” He was not affected by those _stupid_ eyes.  
  
His stalker surprised him by not answering the rhetorical question. Instead, those stupid eyes widened, and that stupid face blushed. Lovino wondered what _that_ was all about before realizing that the two were close. Very close. He could feel his stalker’s breath on his cheek, close.  
  
Lovino pushed the other man away, stood up, and hurried off as quickly as he could while still looking nonchalant. He didn’t look back, and he definitely didn’t pay any mind to the weird ( _nice_ ) feelings circulating through his body. If he had looked back, Lovino would have been able to say, years later, that he had seen the exact moment when Antonio had fallen in love.  
  
After that incident, Lovino made an effort to acquire as much information on his stalker as he could:   
  
His name. ( _Antonio Fernandez Carriedo_ )  
  
His age. ( _Two years older than Lovino’s own_ )  
  
His hometown. ( _Carmona, Spain_ )  
  
His favorite food. ( _Gazpacho_ )  
  
His favorite color. ( _Red… no, yellow… no, red!_ )  
  
His first crush. ( _Beatriz Martínez García, when he was 7 and she was 6_ )  
  
His bank account number, and credit card number, and the single password he used for every account he ever made. ( _tomate132005_ )  
  
…So maybe he’d been stalking his stalker. That wasn’t weird, right?

* * *

 

“That one should hang in that corner over there. Not that one, ve, more to the left. Exactly, ve!”  
  
Feliciano always wondered why other artists would complain about showings. He would always hear about the day of a gala being so stressful, but he’d never felt that way, personally. Currently, he was sitting in the center of his expansive studio, directing 7 of his brother’s men ( _all suited up in their Sunday best_ ) in hanging his Pasta collection for its debut later that night.  
  
A gala wasn’t stressful, it was fun!  
  
One of the men came up next to Feliciano’s seat on the floor. “Excuse me, Mr. Feliciano, but The Boss is here to see you.”  
  
Feliciano’s day improved a thousand fold. He jumped up. “Ve! Brother’s here!? Where, where, where–”  
  
“Shut up, moron, I’m right here.” Lovino Vargas appeared in his little brother’s studio, simultaneously loosening his tie and tossing a manila folder at the worker standing behind Feliciano.  
  
Moments later Feliciano Vargas was on the floor again, only this time he had brought his big brother with him by way of an enormous hug-tackle combination. “Does this mean you’re coming to my show tonight, ve? You haven’t been to one of my shows in so looong, big brother!”  
  
“No, I don’t have time. I have to catch a plane in two hours. I just stopped by to…er… for no reason. I stopped by Venice because I felt like it.”  
  
Feliciano knew better than that, but he didn’t say anything. He liked how his brother would go out of his way to visit. “Where are you flying to?”

“Spain. It’s just a business trip, don’t look at me like that.”  
  
“Ve, I wish you could have come to the gala. I made some of my Pasta paintings especially for you, Lovi. Antonio said they were really good when he visited last month. Hey, wait, isn’t Antonio from Spain? Is he coming with you on your–”  
  
Feliciano was cut off by his brother’s voice, as he shouted commands at his men from his position sprawled out on the floor.  
  
“Hey! You 7! Pay attention! I’m going to be out of the country for a few weeks.”  
  
“Where are you going, boss?” “Anywhere good?” “Who’s watching the bakery?”  
   
Lovino frowned. “I said pay attention, not chatter your fucking heads off! I have business in Spain to take care of, so it’s your job to make sure this moron’s show goes off without a hitch. _Do you understand me?_ ”  
  
The men nodded in unison, fully comprehending that if anything happened to Mr. Feliciano while The Boss was away, they would never be forgiven. And they would probably all be dead before they had time to dwell on that fact. Feliciano understood the implications too, even if he couldn’t really put them into words. He knew that his brother made the bakery’s ‘employees’ help him out up in Venice on a rotating schedule. He also knew that his brother was the main reason that all of their grandfather’s old friends didn’t bother Feliciano much.  
  
Feliciano was grateful, but still, “You shouldn’t be so harsh on them, ve. I know they’ll do a great job!”  
  
Lovino gave his brother a look and finally sat up. “Maybe they will and maybe they won’t. While I’m away _you’re_ their boss, so if anything… out of the ordinary happens to you, call one of them. Immediately.”

“Ve…”  
  
One of the younger suited men interrupted the exchange. “Mr. Feliciano’s right, Boss. We all love coming up to Venice and helping out at the house; it’s like a vacation. You don’t have to worry. We’ll take really good care of your baby brother.” Again, the other men nodded in unison.  
  
Lovino blushed and stood. “Sh-shut up! All of you! Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor; I’m your boss and I just told you what to do! So go back to work, the fucking gala won’t decorate its fucking self.”   
  
As the men jumped to it, Lovino turned at the sound of his little brother’s giggles ( _yes, his little brother giggled. Often. You have a problem with that?_ ).  
  
“Ve, Lovi, you really care about all of us, don’t you?”  
  
“What would give you a dumb idea like that? And get off the floor, stupid.” Lovino reached out a hand to help up his pathetic little brother. Feliciano extended his own hand, and used their positioning to get a stealth hug in on his big brother, once both were fully standing. Lovino acquiesced for a few moments before roughly shoving Feliciano away and walking over to talk quietly with one of his men in a corner.   
  
Feliciano didn’t remember their mother much. He had only been 3 when she had died. Lovino had been 6, so he remembered bits and pieces, like how her voice had been so soothing when she sang. Feliciano didn’t remember their mother, but that didn’t matter so much, because his childhood was full of memories of his brother. He had his brother with him, then and now. Nothing could go wrong when his big brother was around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT FAVORITE CHARACTER, WHERE? Also, crack what crack? Being serious for too long is tiresome. Have a muffin. [People who first read this on the kink meme may notice that I ditched the signore's. I decided to keep everything in English for this, so if you come across something that isn't, just tell me.]


	13. Plots and Plans and Bad Tourism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heist team assembles in Venice.

It was a beautiful old house, but most importantly, it was on the other side of the city from where that Veneziano guy lived. And since Alfred wouldn’t be the one carting all of his equipment and experiments to and from Francis’s Venetian getaway, he didn’t really care. That task fell to Tryggvi, the group’s unofficial odd jobs expert.  
  
Tryggvi’s current odd job included carrying a huge box of questionable materials three steps behind Alfred. Alfred had said something about the contents of the box being fragile, which was Alfred-speak for _highly_ explosive. As Tryggvi walked, he ignored Alfred’s chattering more than he usually would and concentrated on not blowing himself up.  
  
“Venice is nice, huh? Really warm. And all the bridges are cool too, don’t you think? Do you think Eduard’ll let us have some time off to explore the city?”   
  
That was Alfred, the eternal tourist. No matter where he went, he _had_ to go see the biggest local attractions. Their last job had taken them to Campbeltown, Scotland. The other four had just wanted to get their business over and done with and leave ( _Francis had also wanted to do some_ extra _business with the local ladies_ ), but Alfred managed to see every single historical site in the city _and_ buy a stupid tourist T-shirt in just two days.  
  
Alfred had a stupid tourist T-shirt from every city he had ever been to. Tryggvi didn’t really get the appeal of having _I support two teams, Scotland and whoever’s playing England_ plastered across his chest. It was probably an American thing.  
  
“Hey Mr. T! Are we there yet?”  
  
Francis had merely smirked when Tryggvi had asked what that nickname was all about, but Vash had clarified that it was another stupid American thing. Tryggvi was beginning to suspect that all of the ‘stupid American things’ that Alfred did were actually just ‘stupid Alfred things’. Francis had smirked at that too.  
  
“It’s just around the corner from here.”  
  
“Thanks man. Hey, how are you doing with the box? It’s not too heavy, is it?”  
  
Tryggvi could feel his arms quivering. But he had his pride. “It’s fine.”  
  
Alfred was never one to let go once he had gotten one of his teammates trapped in a conversation with him. “Hey T… you live in Francis’s vacation homes, right? Have you ever been to this one before? You, know, before this job.”  
  
He had to think about this one for a while. Yes he had travelled all over Europe in his short life, but Francis had a _lot_ of houses. “I don’t think so. I’ve never been to Venice before.”  
  
“Really?” Oh no… it looked like Alfred was about to – “Then you should come on a tour of the city with me! It’ll be so cool, T, we can take one of those little boats around and then I can show you how my boats are completely superior, and…” – invite him out sightseeing again.  
  
Tryggvi, no, the entire group had learned not to go out sightseeing with Alfred after the Pigeon Incident in Brussels.  
  
“I’ll think about it.”  
  


* * *

  
Eduard started making his apologies before he had even gotten through the front door. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… my flight was delayed. Is everyone else here?”  
  
The hacker finally looked up from his baggage, only to realize that he’d been talking to an empty foyer. “…is _anyone_ else here? Hello?”  
  
“They’re up on the third floor,” Francis’s servant ( _Vash, wasn’t it?_ ) called down from the stairwell. “I’ll take you to them, Master von Bock.” Vash began to descend from his perch on the first landing, stopping only to safely stow the rifle he had been aiming at the door. It was always good to be prepared.  
  
Although guns still made Eduard feel a bit queasy, he could appreciate the sentiment; like Vash, Eduard put great importance into planning ahead. Things could get very messy when people started acting off the cuff. People like Francis. Or Alfred. Or… well, all of them.  
  
“Thank you, Vash. I’ll just follow the noise. Could you please take these bags…?” Taking refuge in politeness: another shared trait.  
  
Freed of his bags, Eduard ascended the staircase, and, sure enough, as soon as he reached the third floor landing he could hear the familiar din of cheering over the low drone of a surveillance tape. Erzsébet most definitely had already arrived. He turned down a dim hallway and found a small sliver of light peeking out from under the last door from the end.  
  
“Now this is last month, after his showing in Florence.” Erzsébet’s voice.  
  
“And that’s the gold being delivered?” That was Alfred.  
  
“Those delivery men don’t look half bad; and they know how to dress, too!” Francis.  
  
“…that’s a lot of gold.” And Tryggvi. Good, everyone had arrived safely. Now they could begin the final planning stages.  
  
Erzsébet’s voice rang out again. “Now here’s two days later…wait for it…there!”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“Don’t you see it? He’s just come out of the basement wearing _that_ getup. Rumor on the street has it that Veneziano has his money re-formed before he stores it away in the vault.”  
  
“Re-formed?”  
  
“Well, I’ve come across differing accounts. One said he turned the gold into jewelry. The other said he had it made into little cupid statues.” Eduard paused outside the door. Cupid statues? Those could be difficult to transport…  
  
Erzsébet continued. “Whichever is true, I’m certain that _that_ man is the one who’s changing the gold. He always shows up within a week of Veneziano’s sales, and once he leaves my cameras don’t pick up any more gold lying around the house.”  
  
Eduard finally entered into the room Erzsébet had turned into her central command. The far wall was lined with monitors, and through the darkness Eduard could make out four figures crouched over a desktop. They must have started without him. He felt slightly angry; he wasn’t _that_ late.  
  
He cleared his throat. “Now that we’re all here, I think it would be appropriate if we finalized our plans.”  
  


* * *

  
“That’s a _stupid_ plan.”  
  
“If you don’t have any better ideas, my dear, then kindly keep your opinions to yourself.”  
  
“Oh, so you think ‘Step 1: seduce him’ and ‘Step 2: take all his gold’ is really going to work?”  
  
Erzsébet sighed. Those boys really couldn’t handle these jobs without her; they always missed the most vital bits of information. Especially when they were caught up in an impassioned battle of wills, which could only be settled by a display of dominance… Erzsébet turned away from the monitor she had been watching and towards the escalating fight between Alfred and Francis. Tryggvi’s eyes had already glazed over, and it looked like Eduard was about to have a heart attack.  
  
 _Really._  
  
“That won’t work, Francis.”  
  
The men in the room gave a little start, as though they had forgotten she was there.  
  
“Not you too, beautiful…” Francis could look so mournful so quickly. She had to ask him how he did that.  
  
“You won’t be able to seduce him very easily, just look at this.” She motioned to the tape playing on the screen behind her. Erzsébet had been watching the same three video segments for the past two hours. They were rather pathetic, but they had so much potential to be absolutely _delicious_ that she couldn’t bring herself to stop.  
  
“What are we supposed to be watching?”  
  
“Just wait, it’s starting up again…”  
  
On the screen, Veneziano and the tall blonde from earlier appeared. The blonde walked towards the doors, looking a little flustered. Erzsébet had noticed that he always looked flustered whenever Veneziano wasn’t fully clothed. The painter was only missing a shirt this time, though. She didn’t see what there was to be embarrassed about. A tinny sound floated from Erzsébet’s computer as the two onscreen began to speak.  
  
“Ve, you can’t leave yet, Ludwig. You barely just got here!”  
  
The blonde made a feeble protest. “I’ve been here for three days already; it’s time for me to make sure my brother hasn’t set the house on fire again.”

The painter deflated. And then… “But Luuudwig… you haven’t tasted my Tiramisu yet, and you promised you would!” Veneziano came up behind the blonde, Ludwig, and carefully put his arms around the taller man. And then whispered into his ear ( _sweet nothings, promises of fire and light, of the deepest of connections made without any words at all…_ ).  
  
Eduard’s voice cut in over the sound of the tape. “Why are we watching this? We really should be–”  
  
“ **What are you doing?! Be quiet, this is the best part!** ”  
  
As one, Francis, Alfred and Tryggvi gave Eduard very sympathetic glances. Eduard really should have known better, by now. It was easy to forget with how docile she acted most of the time, but Erzsébet could be _deadly_ when she was disturbed from her tapes.  
  
The woman in question completely missed this exchange of masculine solidarity. She had already returned to the world of the video segment. Eduard’s mistake forgotten, Erzsébet started to mouth the words being murmured by the two men on the screen. She knew what they were going to say by heart: she’d already watched this clip 27 times…  
  
“So you’ll stay?”  
  
“…I’ll stay.”  
  
“Ve, for three more days, at least.”

“For three more days.”  
  
The cat had caught the canary as it was taking a bath in cream. “ _Good._ ”  
  
Eduard waited until the men had wandered off-screen before he ventured to speak again. “Erzsébet.”

“Mmm… yes?”

“As always, you’ve done exceptional work… but what was that supposed to show us, exactly?”  
  
She turned to look at the men like they were crazy. They obviously were, if they couldn’t see what she had seen. “How did you miss it? Francis doesn’t have a chance seducing Veneziano, because Veneziano’s too busy seducing Ludwig! It just wouldn’t work!”  
  
“Then what do you suggest?” Tryggvi could be such a sweet dear. Now if only he would find himself a good boyfriend.  
  
“Veneziano had a show just last weekend. This means that Ludwig will be coming to Venice sometime within the week. _And_ Veneziano’s brother’s going to be out of the country. It’s the perfect time for us.”  
  
Francis finally stopped pouting, and began to regain his usual self-satisfied expression. “So all we have to do is wait? Wait for the very strong and capable Ludwig to whisk our rich little painter away for the evening?”  
  
How they still didn’t get it was beyond her.  
  
“More like the other way around. _Ahem_. No, that still won’t work, since the two spend so much time at the house when Ludwig’s there. But as soon as Ludwig leaves, _that’s_ when our window of opportunity opens.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“How would you feel if your love interest left you? The poor dear gets very depressed and goes out somewhere in the city right after Ludwig leaves. Sometimes he’s gone for _hours_.”  
  
Eduard had finally caught on. “And most of his guards trail him on these excursions, don’t they?”  
  
“Exactly.”

“Then that’s when we’ll have to move. Erzsébet, get Tryggvi to help you plan how we get in. Francis, you’re in charge of the escape route. Alfred… just make sure your toys are 100% done by the time we need them.” With a little bit of luck, the heist would be done within the week. Eduard was always thankful when such a clean job presented itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently Erzsébet is an ItaGer shipper. Who would have known.
> 
>  **Also:** Poor Eduard. Don’t you know you’re in a Hollywood heist story? Things never go smoothly in those.
> 
>  **About the Pigeon Incident (someone asked):** Imagine that Alfred spent some time in his early life living in NYC. Then imagine him stepping out of a bus in a big city like Brussels, covered in hamburger bun crumbs. Then imagine him having a boxcutter and three rubber bands in his back pocket. Then imagine him being unable to get to them because his hands are full of food and souvenirs. Then imagine him naked.
> 
> Add four parts the rest of the heist-gang, and stir. Does that give your imagination something to work with?


	14. Tiptoe Past the Tulips and Straight into the Austrian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erzsébet gathers intelligence at the market and afterwards meets a very interesting man. Meanwhile, Roderich's life is a shoujo manga. No really.

Francis had never seen Erzsébet quite so happy before. No, happy wasn’t the right word. Erzsébet was happy when she was taking pictures or watching raw footage. The expression on Erzsébet’s face as she waltzed into the building wasn’t filled with joy. Rather, it was warm. It was _smitten_.   
  
“My dear,” Francis began, from his place on the stairs, “I thought you said Veneziano did not delight in the appeals of the female form?”  
  
That certainly made her jump. “What?! Oh, Francis, don’t scare me like that.” Erzsébet put her hand over her heart and pantomimed calming herself down from a scare. She was getting much better at it, at her acting, but she had yet to best her teacher.  
  
“You didn’t answer my question.”  
  
“…yes, that’s true. Veneziano’s too busy questing for Ludwig’s pure love to worry about women.”  
  
“I suppose that’s _one_ way to put it.” He paused for a calculated half-moment. “But weren’t you supposed to make contact with the painter today? To gain his trust and keep him out of the house?”  
  
 _“I did!”_ Oh, how defensive. Erzsébet had made a fatal error. She had shown Francis that there was something more to her story; he’d never let her pass freely now.  
  
“But instead you fell in love with him? Darling, that’s not a very efficient way to work.” Erzsébet turned a lovely shade of red that, while intense, was nowhere near a match for the color of the tulip in her left hand. If she hadn’t tried to hide it behind her bags, Francis never would have noticed it. But she had, so he did. “And he gave you a flower too? What a charmer. Maybe we aren’t going about this the right way. Are you _absolutely_ certain my talents can’t be used in the preliminary stages?”  
  
Erzsébet had finally had enough. “That’s not it at all you pervert!”   
  
“Oh really, Miss Kettle?”  
  
At least she had the grace to blush. “No. I met Veneziano at the market this afternoon, just as we all discussed. We talked while he did his shopping. He’s really a nice young man.”  
  
“And then he gave you flowers.”  
  
“Stop obsessing over the flower, Francis, he didn’t! All we did was talk. I bought enough time for Tryggvi to finish mapping and then I excused myself. Veneziano and I could pass each other on the street tomorrow and he would never remember me.”  
  
Francis nodded and began to descend the stairs, towards Erzsébet’s position in the middle of the foyer. “Such a shame, forgetting a beautiful woman like… well, who did he get to meet, exactly?”  
  
“Anna, the emotionally fragile tourist from Miskolc who might be divorcing her husband soon. The passion in their relationship is all gone.”  
  
“He met Anna? Why not Katalin? She’s the poet, isn’t she? Couldn’t she have talked about art with him? Drawn him in that way?” Francis could barely keep all of Erzsébet’s aliases straight, for all that he had helped her come up with every single one. He didn’t need to remember them. Usually he was too busy mentally cataloging his _own_ personas to keep up with anything else.  
  
Erzsébet shook her head. “I didn’t want him to associate me with art. In fact, I think it’s in our best interest if he doesn’t focus on his art or his money much at all in the next few days. It’ll be safest if no one’s around while we’re doing our work.”  
  
“Practical as always, my dear.”   
  
The two stopped conversing when the door behind Erzsébet creaked open. Clad in unremarkable browns and grays and weighted down by two duffel bags, Tryggvi passed by the entryway quickly. If he could move fast enough, maybe Erzsébet and Francis would leave him alone…   
  
“Tryggvi!” “Tryggvi, my pet…” Curses.  
  
Francis caught his errand boy by the cuff as he tried to run. Tryggvi could be so moody and rude… it was sometimes hard to believe he wasn’t a teenager anymore. “My dear Tryggvi…” Suddenly, Francis had a stroke of inspiration. “What is your favorite kind of flower?”  
  
“Globeflowers.”   
  
Well now, that was prompt. Francis hadn’t actually expected a real answer from Tryggvi. Most of the time, when Francis asked flippant questions, Tryggvi would respond by muttering curses. Either that or he wouldn’t say anything at all. _Curious._  
  
“And you, Erzsébet? Now that Tryggvi has shared with the class, would you care to tell us _your_ favorite flower? It would hardly be polite otherwise.” Erzsébet opened her mouth, as if to answer, but Francis slyly cut her off. “Your favorites wouldn’t happen to be red tulips, would they? How romantic.” _There._ The girl was trapped. She really should have known better.  
  
Erzsébet threw her bag in Tryggvi’s direction and began stomping up the stairs. “If you _must_ know, yes. Red tulips are some of my favorites, but it’s not like that!” She paused at the first landing and seemed to collect herself. “I like Lilies-of-the-Valley too. So there.” She almost stuck out her tongue and made a face, but. No. She wasn’t childish. She was a grown-up, sophisticated woman!  
  
Francis considered this. He could tell her that the Lily-of-the-Valley suited her poisonous personality, but he did _so_ love his beautiful face all in one piece. Instead, he chose to agree with her. “I am quite fond of those as well. Or maybe mint. Mint has such an exhilarating scent, don’t you agree?”  
  
Tryggvi glanced between the two. Was something going on here that he didn’t understand?  
  
“I suppose…” Erzsébet shook her head, as though the physical action would clear her mind. “It doesn’t matter! Just because _you’ve_ finished your work already, _Francis_ , doesn’t mean that _we_ aren’t busy. Tryggvi! Let’s get going.”  
  
Francis let go of Tryggvi’s arm and watched the two depart up the stairs. In reality he was nowhere near done with his plans. But no one needed to know that.  
  


* * *

  
It had already been an hour since Erzsébet had parted from her target, but she was still angry. Angry at herself, angry at the world, angry at how she could never stay detached for long. Everything had been going fine, in the market, but then she had started making mistakes and it had all fallen apart. She had met the painter as he browsed through a vegetable stand, and had pretended to recognize him from a magazine. Anna was a friendly woman and that tired look behind her eyes could gain anyone’s sympathy.  
  
Veneziano, no… he had told Anna to call him Feliciano. But she wasn’t Anna, even though she _was_. Erzsébet should just stick to calling him Veneziano, even in her mind. But it was hard, because the man who was only a few years younger than Erzsébet ( _Anna was supposed to be even older, but she had only been created a few years before_ ) was kind and friendly and took her advice completely seriously. Even when it was advice on how to make a man notice him. Advice that Erzsébet had no business giving out.  
  
The two had chatted as Veneziano had gathered the supplies needed for a gourmet meal. Erzsébet had given suggestions on which vegetables to pick and which dishes would be the best to serve. She had given other suggestions too… Ludwig was certainly going to be surprised if Feli— _Veneziano_ followed through with the strawberry idea. _Oh would he ever._  
  
She had started getting careless when Veneziano had finished his shopping. It was almost siesta time, apparently, and he had to go home. But his home was where Tryggvi was, and Erzsébet would never hear the end of it if the painter and the three bodyguards that were hiding behind a souvenir stand went home early. So she had started babbling about the scenery and the composition of the pictures she’d like to take of the buildings and.  
  
And she hadn’t meant to let Veneziano see little glimpses of Erzsébet. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Later on, after she had bought Tryggvi over an hour’s worth of time, she finally detached herself from the painter ( _my husband is expecting me…he gets, well, kind of unhappy if I don’t show up where he wants me to be…_ ) and escaped into the streets of Venice.  
  
But not before securing an invitation to “stop by anytime! I circled where I live on this map, but, ve, I can get home without it, so you should have it. We can talk about different lighting effects when you visit, ve!”  
  
Erzsébet cursed under her breath as she walked aimlessly through the streets. How could she have gotten so carried away that she forgot the act? What if she had just ruined everything?  
  
It was quite unfortunate that Erzsébet was so busy caught up in her dilemma that she wasn’t watching where she was going. Unfortunate for Roderich Edelstein, that was.  
  
 _SLAM_  
  
“Oh no, I’m so sorry sir. I wasn’t looking where I was going!”  
  
Roderich didn’t believe in angels, for all that they were sung about in operas and hymns. No, he didn’t believe in angels, but that apparently hadn’t stopped one from crashing into him on Thursday, late in the afternoon, as he watched a group of musicians busking in the campo.   
  
Haydn. String quartet Opus 76, number 4. “Sunrise.” The musicians were doing a beautiful job of it; Roderich heard “Sunrise” butchered so often that he had developed a twitch in the corner of his mouth, which manifested itself whenever he heard any of Haydn’s quartets being played. Luckily it went away whenever he heard beautiful music. This time he hadn’t even needed to put one of his own recordings on.  
  
“No, Miss. It must have been my fault. I was the one standing in the middle of the road, after all. Please, allow me to apologize.”   
  
The angel smiled at him and Roderich forgot how to speak. “No, really, _I_ should be the one apologizing. I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I ran into you while you were… listening to the music?”   
  
Roderich would have remained silent, had he not turned into a blubbering fool. “My name is Roderich Edelstein.”  
  
“Hm?”

“Edelstein. I’m a musician, piano mostly, and I was listening because they’re actually doing quite a good job. I really appreciate it when fellow musicians put so much effort into their craft. These four are really living the piece.”  
  
She had every right to be looking at him like some sort of madman; it was how he was acting.  
  
“That’s… interesting! It’s nice to meet you, Roderich. My name is Erzsébet! I mean…yes. Erzsébet.” The angel looked so conflicted, but Roderich just wrote it off as her being appropriately appalled at his horrifyingly inappropriate forwardness. “And you play the piano? That’s so…so interesting! It’s interesting too! Do you also play on the streets?”  
  
He hadn’t played anywhere besides concert halls or special audiences since he was seven. But the angel didn’t need to know that. Ludwig had told Roderich that when he started talking about his career and _his music_ , that he was difficult to get along with. Roderich didn’t think _Ludwig_ was one to be talking, but… it wouldn’t do, to drive such a wonderful woman away. She was a vision.  
  
“Yes, I do. Sometimes.”

“Oh? Where?”

She looked genuinely interested. Was it in his music, or him, or ( _dare he hope?_ ) both? Now he had to think quickly. “Er. You know. Around.”

“So you play in this square? When will you be playing next? I’d really like to hear you… because I find classical music so interesting! Of course!” My, but she was such an enthusiastic angel, Erzsébet. Nothing like the pathetically apathetic culture of today. And she liked classical music! He really had to come up with something clever.

Something witty.  
  
“This…Saturday sounds fine. At…at five in the afternoon? Does that work for you?”  
  
“ _Yes!_ ”  
  
Wonderful. “It’s settled then. I will see you at five on Saturday, Miss Erzsébet. Good day to you.” He could walk away now, or ask to walk her to her own destination, or… either way, it had to be something befitting of a gentleman. Some gesture smooth, but refined. Nothing overwhelming…  
  
Erzsébet beat him to it.  
  
“Oh, but before you go… _Roderich_ , wait just a moment.” She dashed off, and Roderich wondered if he had done something untoward. But only for a moment, because in less than three minutes she came rushing back. Some might consider her sprint to be unladylike, but in Roderich’s opinion, it made for such beautiful roses to appear on her cheeks that he began to think. Of things. Things he hadn’t thought of in a _very_ long while. Not since the conservatory, at least.  
  
The angel had come back to him, bearing two flowers. Tulips.  
  
“I saw him over there out of the corner of my eye, and I thought I could buy you something to apologize for running into you. All he had left were these two; I am surprised he had anything left at all, really. But here! Please, take them.”  
  
Roderich hesitated, and then took the yellow tulip from her hand. It was pretty. Like Erzsébet. Oh dear… “Here. I shall take one, and you shall keep the other, as it was both of our faults for being so careless. How does that sound?”  
  
She beamed at him. “Lovely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoujo things don’t happen to Erzsébet; they happen to Roderich. All the time. Also: Does anyone know Silent Hill: Shattered Memories out there? Its soundtrack is surprisingly pretty good for writing heist-y romantic comedies. It still surprises me.
> 
> Double also: Everyone’s an unreliable narrator, but when is it important?


	15. What’s the Worst that Could Happen?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feliciano, Ludwig and Roderich catch up after a long day. Across the continent, Antonio doesn't technically crash a wedding and he and Lovino converse in an alleyway.

“Your brother doesn’t like me.”  
  
“Veeee, what would make you think that? Is it because he made faces at you? Did he shout at you? I know sometimes people get really worried when he shouts at them. But he’s just grumpy like that with everybody, ve!”  
  
Ludwig gave Feliciano the sort of look he often gave to people who shouted fast-paced, high-pitched nonsense at him. So, essentially, he gave Feliciano the same look he always did. “I will not argue that your brother is not… grumpy. But I will also not take back what I said. He doesn’t like me.”  
  
Feliciano frowned as he threw himself onto one of the couches in his sitting room. He’d taken a tip from Feliks a few years earlier and had filled the expansive room with warm colors and comfortable chairs. The change had gone over well with his guest; how was he supposed to know that Ludwig didn’t really like ultra-modern interior decoration schemes? Especially with all the weird stuff he made for a living…  
  
“But, ve, you two’ve never really talked, even! How could you know something like that?”  
  
Ludwig contemplated sitting in an armchair closer to the fire… but gave in and ended up taking his place on the loveseat next to Feliciano. “Two weeks after we met, someone threw a brick through my front window.”  
  
“Ve! That’s horrible!”  
  
“There was a note tied to the brick. It said _’Stay away from my brother!!!’_ ”  
  
“That doesn’t prove anything!”   
  
It really didn’t, and Ludwig felt how pathetic it was that he could immediately recall at least _four_ times when Gilbert had annoyed someone to the extent that they had followed him home with the intent to harm him. Usually, the strangers saw reason and went away quietly ( _and very, very quickly_ ) after Ludwig had a talk with them. It was fortunate for the Beilschmidt brothers that Ludwig was so good at communicating with other people.  
  
Indeed.  
  
“After that note, I am 95% certain that he tried to kill me.”   
  
Ludwig wasn’t 100% sure because he was _never_ 100% sure of anything. At least 5% of everything that happened to Ludwig was due to Freak Gilbert Accidents. The older Beilschmidt brother had only recently convinced their insurance company that his Freak Gilbert Accidents should get to be filed under ‘acts of God.’ Ludwig thought they should both be embarrassed by this; Gilbert had never looked prouder.  
  
One of the men standing in the shadows stepped away from the wall he had been leaning against and spoke. “You must have been mistaken, Mr. Beilschmidt. The Boss does not kill anyone. He is merely a respectable baker from the provincial town of—”  
  
He was cut off by The Boss’s little brother. “Oh, ve, don’t bother. Ludwig already knows about that stuff.”  
  
On a second glance, Ludwig could tell that he’d never seen this man at the mansion before. He must be new. With the speed that the suited man used to return to silence and shadows, Ludwig was 95% certain that this man wasn’t one of Feliciano’s regular guardians. The ‘baker’s assistants’ usually took no more than a week to learn how informal their charge really was.  
  
“Mr. Feliciano, with all due respect, maybe you should wait a few months longer before asking The Boss if he would like to have dinner with you and Mr. Beilschmidt. It is currently a stressful time for The Boss.” Ah, now that was one of the regulars. The regulars all knew about the power of suggestion.  
  
“Ve…but I want to have a dinner party _now_. And wouldn’t it be great if you and big brother could get to know each other, Ludwig?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I know you’d like each other, because I like the both of you!”  
  
“Ah, Feliciano. You should listen to them.”  
  
“Oh _fine_.”   
  
That pout. Ludwig couldn’t deal with that pout, so instead he stood up and walked over to one of the far walls. Feliciano had filled the room with an odd collection of large framed photographs and delicate sketches. Just like in the rest of the house, every piece of artwork on display had been produced by the eccentric little artist currently lounging on the loveseat behind him. Ludwig could feel the slightly damp weight of a teary-eyed gaze boring holes into the back of his head.   
  
He did his best to ignore it.  
  


* * *

  
He was late. He hated being late. And why was he late?   
  
Roderich had gotten lost. Again. _That’s_ why he was late.  
  
Luckily for the frustrated musician, he rounded a corner and found himself exactly where he was supposed to be, if not quite _when_ he was supposed to be there. Wasting no more time, Roderich quickly strode through the mansion’s gates, up the short walk and in through the doors themselves.   
  
One of Feliciano’s many butlers had already courteously opened the door and was waiting to take Roderich’s coat. Another man asked if he would like anything to eat or drink, and upon hearing the negative, a third butler kindly saw Roderich to the closest sitting room. Roderich didn’t know where Feliciano had found such good help but at times he was very jealous of their efficiency.  
  
Entering the dimly lit lounge, he saw his two friends sitting and standing on opposite sides of the room. Strange.  
  
“Ludwig. Feliciano. It is unfortunate that I couldn’t be here earlier, but you know how things are.”  
  
Both men turned to look at him. And then the painter pounced.  
  
“Roderich! It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, ve, how are you? Did you get lost again? How was your day? My day was very nice, ve, I met a really pretty girl in the market!”  
  
Roderich decided to answer the list of questions in the order of their importance. “As did I.”

“Ve?”

“It’s nothing, really. Ah, I am sorry it took so long for me to come back to Venice. The tour took longer than we expected it to; they kept booking extra concerts. It would have been unseemly of me to not play at them, even though I was hardly given proper notice.” Feliciano gave a little giggle as he hugged his friend. Roderich could be so funny! “In fact, the tour is the reason I’m in Venice right now, to begin with.”  
  
Roderich liked his friends, really he did, but that didn’t stop him from giving a very relieved sigh when Ludwig finally walked over. The distraction allowed Roderich to escape from the enthusiastic greeting he had been trapped in. Once freed, he took a seat by the fire.  
  
“It is good to see you as well, Ludwig. And if you don’t mind me asking, what were you doing all the way on the other side of the room?”  
  
The other two men sat down together on a couch close to the chair Roderich had picked. Feliciano immediately sidled up to Ludwig, who didn’t do anything to stop him, and Roderich wondered, in the back of his mind, if he was the only man in Venice who was straight. The thought passed quickly as Ludwig answered his question.  
  
“I was looking at the sketches over there.”   
  
Feliciano got a gleam in his eye at that, which made Roderich immediately suspicious. “Oh? What of?”  
  
And with good reason. “You.”  
  
A sane man would accept this as another of his friend’s oddities and skillfully turn the conversation in another direction. Roderich liked to believe he was a sane man.  
  
“ _What?!_ ”  
  
Sometimes he had his doubts.  
  
“Don’t look at me like that, ve… it’s nothing bad, Roderich! They’re just some sketches and studies I did of you playing the piano. I needed them to finish the painting I did of you.”  
  
“…the painting.”

“Ve, exactly! _Afternoon Chopin_ was a big hit at my gala this weekend.”  
  
Roderich, the perfect gentleman, was still stuck on the first little tidbit. “… _the painting_.”  
  
Feliciano smiled and pointed at a serious of small little frames hung on the far wall. They were too far away for Roderich to make out any details. He found that he didn’t really want to. “You painted me. Was…I was wearing clothes for this painting, I hope?” With a man like Feliciano, it was always good to check.  
  
“Silly. Of course you were. I painted you playing the piano, ve, just like the title says!”  
  
Roderich shared a quick look with Ludwig, just to make sure Feliciano was telling the truth. With a man like Feliciano, it was always good to double check.

For his troubles, Roderich received a nod in return. “I didn’t see the finished piece, but the sketches over there are quite tasteful. You are fully clothed in them.”  
  
Feliciano frowned at the course the conversation had run. The other two artists might be really important people to him, but they could be so strange sometimes. “Ve, I don’t see what’s wrong with playing the piano naked; I paint naked all the time! But I promised not to paint you without any clothes on, Roderich, ve, not without permission, and you would have known that I hadn’t if you had just been there last week!” Ah yes, there were the tears. “Why don’t you two ever come to my galas…?”  
  
“I was playing three concerts in Tokyo” and “I had work” fell on deaf ears. Feliciano was already sinking into the depths of despair.

“Ve, and Lovi doesn’t ever come to my shows anymore either. He promised…”  
  
Ludwig was out of his depth and Roderich always made a point to never get on roller coasters, emotional or otherwise. So it fell to the suited men listening in from the corners of the room to chip in and cheer up their temporary boss. A man wearing a green tie was the first to intervene.  
  
“Mr. Feliciano, you must remember that The Boss is very busy and currently doing incredibly important work. For the bakery. Think of it this way: Boss was at the gala in spirit. And didn’t he give you a video call two days ago?”  
  
That didn’t quite do the trick.  
  
“I _guess_. But all he did was tell me that he was mad at me for being stupid. And tell me he was at a wedding… That’s not work! Veeee, why does brother get to go to so many weddings?”  
  
The man in the green tie got a funny look on his face that none of the seated artists could quite decipher. Feliciano would place it as ‘weird,’ Roderich would call it ‘aggravated,’ and Ludwig wouldn’t even try. In reality, the man was just remembering his _own_ wedding day.  
  
“You’re right Mr. Feliciano: it’s not work! And it’s so unfair that Boss gets to go over to Spain and have fun, when I had to cancel my date with Celia for tomorrow night… not that I don’t like being here with you! It’s not like that mmf—” The blathering man was silenced by the hand of his superior ( _”Really, to break protocol like that… that butler must be new”_ ).  
  
Interestingly enough, the outburst got Feliciano’s spirits back. And then some. Because what was Feliciano doing moping around when _love_ was on the line? What had Anna said in the market? Right! ‘You have to do everything you can for love, Feliciano!’  
  
She’d said some other things, but those things probably didn’t apply here. Celia sounded like a nice, pretty girl, and not a tall, muscular, German man ( _Ve, right, don’t say anything about strawberries_ ).  
  
“Ve! That’s so mean that my brother made you cancel your date! Did anybody else have to do that?” Three of the suited men raised their hands. So many… but Feliciano was not a warrior of love for nothing.  
  
“Lovino said I was in charge while he was gone, right?” Feliciano was captivating when he was focused, and right now he had the attention of the entire room. “Then listen up, ve! You three: go have fun tomorrow night. In fact, you can spend the entire weekend with your pretty dates. And that’s an order!”  
  
The three men who had raised their hands cheered. The man with the green tie began to look vaguely ill. “Mr. Feliciano… I don’t think—”  
  
“My orders are final, ve!”  
  
“Al-alright, Mr. Feliciano.” _Oh this wasn’t going to be good._  
  
Feliciano stood and pulled Ludwig up after him. “Acting like Lovi makes me all tired, ve. I’m going to bed.”  
  
“Actually, Feliciano, I would like to continue speaking with Roderich about…” Whatever Ludwig had planned on saying, he was never given the opportunity to finish.  
  
“You’re so silly, Ludwig. Ve… _you’re going to bed too._ ” And that was that.  
  
Aside from the butlers, Roderich was the last to leave the room. And in an uncharacteristic display, the last thing he did before leaving the mansion completely was clap his hand on the shoulder of the butler with the green tie and give him a little reassurance. The poor man had seemed to be the only one with his wits around him in a sea of trainees, back in the sitting room.  
  
“Relax. What’s the worst that could happen?”  
  


* * *

  
When he’d first arrived in Spain, Lovino had expected he’d be stuck in some boring meetings for a week or so. Nothing special. Maybe the gang Russo wanted him to work with would try to flatter him or feed him, to influence his decisions. That hadn’t sounded so bad.  
  
And then he’d gotten the phone call.  
  
One of Russo’s great second grandnieces or whatever was getting married. In Spain. To one of the members of the gang Lovino was currently negotiating with. And Russo really wished he could go wish his niece well on her special day, really he did ( _she’d been a very rich girl, even before the wedding_ ), but he was so busy, and all the way back home in Italy. But wait! _Lovino_ was in Spain. What a coincidence.  
  
His boss was such a bastard sometimes.  
  
But it could have been worse. So Lovino had gotten into his limo like a good little Mafioso and had let himself be driven to the villa where the wedding celebrations were taking place. So what if this would delay his plans by another few weeks? It wasn’t like he was itching to go home. Wasn’t like he missed his brother. Or his grandfather. Or his muffins.   
  
He _especially_ didn’t miss Antonio. In fact, Lovino was overjoyed that he got to be out of Italy for so long, since Antonio never seemed to follow him out of the country. He’d get to have a little peace of mind for once; maybe he’d even get to live in an idiot-free zone for a day or two. Now if only he could go without jumping every time he heard the locals exclaiming in Spanish…  
  
This was just another wedding. He could handle it.  
  
But after several straight days of music and laughter, Lovino was just about ready to snap. He’d been on his best behavior ever since his plane had landed, had been the epitome of charm once he’d arrived at the villa, and it was starting to grate on his nerves. Sure, Lovino loved all the attention he got from the women in Spain. Chatting up the Spanish girls was all well and good, chatting up the Italian girls who had come over for the wedding was better and getting fed by the grandmothers was probably Lovino’s favorite thing of all.   
  
But he was tense, and he hadn’t been able to cook in so long, and right now even Blueberry’s poetry was beginning to look appealing. Poetry was looking appealing when Lovino was in the midst of a giant party full of single women not looking for any commitment from him.   
  
It was Friday and he was going insane. Correction, it was the _first_ Friday out of the three he was now supposed to be spending in Spain and Lovino was already going insane. Spain, insane…   
  
Lovino quickly made an executive decision and quietly edged away from the mass of people in the courtyard. Once he was sure no one was watching, he slipped through one of the side doors Blueberry had found when he had been sent in to check the security of the villa. The small, unobtrusive door opened up onto a small, deserted back alley. Once the door was safely closed behind him, Lovino almost couldn’t hear the sounds of revelry coming from the courtyard. Almost. It was muted, at least, and gave him the chance to have some time to himself.  
  
Yes, time for Lovino, his thoughts, and the alleyway. And Antonio, who was leaning against a brick wall several yards away.  
  
Wait.  
  
 _Antonio?_   
  
In a very familiar scene, Lovino’s stalker was indeed standing there, as though it was perfectly normal. He even held an upside-down open newspaper as if _that_ was perfectly normal as well.  
  
Lovino’s first thought was that he should be really angry. “ _You._ ”  
  
Like always, Antonio waved. “Hi Lovi! How’s the party going? I can hear it from all the way out here, so it must be pretty nice.”  
  
Lovino could have done many things, including but not limited to: shouting at Antonio, cursing at Antonio, ignoring Antonio or inviting Antonio in to the party so he could see how it was for himself. Lovino did none of these things. “You should at least be pretending to read that thing, you creepy idiot. Or is that too much of a stretch for you?”  
  
Antonio had selective hearing. Unfortunately for him, he never seemed to select the right things to hear. “You think I’m creepy, Lovi?” That was a disheartening thing to hear. And how had Lovino even known that Antonio was there? He’d been so sneaky…  
  
The way Antonio was looking at him now made Lovino feel the same thing that he used to feel when he would ‘forget’ a phone number; a slight flash of guilt that he could easily brush aside. “I’ve been calling you creepy for years, you stalker. And you pick up on it _now_?”  
  
“Eh heh heh…” Now he was nervous. And when Antonio got nervous, sometimes he didn’t act as smooth as he normally could. “What are you talking about? Lovi, you must be tired; you’ve never seen me before.” It was a quick fix, but Antonio _was_ nervous.  
  
Lovino was having none of it. Mostly because if he forgot everything else, he was pretty sure he’d remember the ten years of enthusiastic stalking. “You’ve been following me on and off since I was 17, moron. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice something like that?”  
  
Antonio dropped his newspaper in surprise. “But I thought I did a really good job of disguising myself!”  
  
“You? You wouldn’t know a good disguise if I hit you in the face with it.”  
  
“What was that?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
In the short pause that followed, both of the men in the alleyway had the exact same thought ( _I think this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had_ ). However, Antonio’s thoughts continued along the lines of ‘…he looks so cute right now’ while Lovino’s meandered in the direction of ‘God, this is so pathetic.’  
  
And then Antonio broke the silence with a question that had been bothering him since he’d learned who the bride was. “Are you sad?”   
  
_That_ was a weird question. “Why would I be?”   
  
“You dated the bride. You took her to the opera four times.”   
  
Lovino was confused. Where could his weird, creepy Spanish stalker be going with this? “I did?”   
  
“And you went out to dinner with her every night for a week straight.” It was almost like Antonio was searching for an answer. For a reassurance of some sort.  
  
Lovino just told the truth. “Huh. I don’t remember any of that.”  
  
And it was enough.  
  
It would have to be enough, because at that moment Lovino’s phone rang, reminding both men that there was more to the world than the alleyway. Lovino checked the screen… why was Apple Cinnamon calling him ( _So what if he had listed his muffins by their nicknames in his phone? It wasn’t like anyone but him got to look through his contacts…so there!_ )? Apple Cinnamon was supposed to be safe and bored in Venice, where Lovino’s little brother was supposed to be safe and stupid. Just like always.  
  
Lovino’s muffins were under strict orders to only call him from Venice if they absolutely needed to. Mostly because Feliciano was surprisingly smarter than he looked, and had lately taken to disappearing out of the house for hours without telling anyone where he was going. But he had always come back. So why was one of the muffins calling Lovino now, when he was hundreds of miles away and fucking _busy_?  
  
He looked over at Antonio. “I have to take this. You… stop stalking me, okay? Just stop it.” Instead of watching to see what Antonio’s reaction would be (he could probably guess _that_ ), Lovino accepted his call and hurried back into the courtyard, closing the little door behind him. If he looked busy enough it was unlikely that anyone would bother him before he could get to his room.  
  
Back in the alley, Lovino’s correct guess manifested itself as a look of utter determination on Antonio’s face. So maybe Lovi had seen through his disguise. And maybe he had told Antonio to stop stalking him… that only meant Antonio had to try ten times harder next time!  
  
And maybe next time he could get invited inside. It looked like it was about to rain…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was cheating on this by writing "Memory Loss", I found out that it’s really fun being a jerk to Spain. Maybe that’s why Romano’s one of my favorites? Who knows. Writing that one also screwed with my crack headcanon of Spain; I can't help but think that Spain Controls the Weather now.


	16. The Tenth Hour is Not Much Better than the Eleventh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heist team gathers in the safe house to go over their final plans.

For the umpteenth time, they gathered in Central Command to review their devious plans. Central Command was dimly lit and full of buzzing machinery, which made for a very good plotting atmosphere. Eduard had named it ‘Central Command’ in a bid to try and make their operation sound a little more professional. Alfred liked to call it ‘The Stalking Room,’ which was also fairly accurate and sounded less stuffy. Everyone besides those two, however, just called it Erzsébet’s room.  
  
Because it was.   
  
“Everyone, please. Settle down.” Eduard wiped his face with his hands. They’d been refining their entry and exit strategies for weeks already. The only thing the five criminals hadn’t worked down to the tiniest detail was… everything in between. “Now, Erzsébet. _Please_ tell me you’ve gotten all the information you need.”  
  
From his seat on a low couch, Francis nodded. “The waiting is getting to you too, isn’t it?”  
  
Eduard’s hesitant affirmation was cut off by the sound of a wrench dropping. As the perpetrator skidded out from behind the haphazardly hung white bed sheet that divided the room from a whole into the ‘Everybody Else’ Zone and the ‘Sorry Erzsi, You Can Have Your Room Back in Twenty Minutes, I Swear’ Zone, Eduard wondered whether he would ever be allowed to work with sane people. One could always hope.  
  
“Hey! Can somebody hand that back over here?” Four hands raised in response to Alfred’s muffled question. He’d commandeered the far corner as their meeting had started, in order to put the finishing touches on his newest creations. Alfred never let anyone see what he was working on before he’d finished it. He was odd and secretive like that.  
  
“And no peeking!” Just like that, all four hands dropped as if they’d never been raised in the first place ( _It wasn’t as though Alfred could see them anyways, through the sheet, but it was the thought that counted_ ).  
  
Eduard sighed as picked up the little wrench and made for Alfred’s voice. For whatever reason, Alfred didn’t mind Eduard looking in on his half-finished projects. Eduard didn’t know what he had done to inspire such trust. It might have had something to do with the fact that he often helped Alfred finish the coding on his silly robots. Or maybe it was because Eduard gave off such a responsible aura.  
  
“Here.” He pushed the wrench through the tiny opening in the barrier Alfred had made by lifting the curtain. “And when do you think you’re going to be done in there? It would be best if we were all present to finalize these plans.”  
  
He heard a snort. “What’re you talking about? I’m here. Just keep going guys; I can hear everything you’re saying just fine.”  
  
“You heard the boy, Eduard. Let’s get back to work!” Erzsébet’s sing-song voice forced Eduard to turn around, slowly. Life was a horror film when Erzsébet used _that_ voice. And yes…there it was. _That_ smile. When _that_ voice and _that_ smile came together, it usually meant that Erzsébet was getting impatient. Or that one of her cameras was down, but in those cases, Erzsébet was usually even quicker to rage.  
  
As he quickly made his way back to his seat, Eduard noted the stray sparks flying over Alfred’s sheet, the large rolls of paper Erzsébet had dumped all over the table, and the way Francis had pulled a very depressed looking Tryggvi onto his lap.   
  
Eduard sat. And Eduard sighed. Again.  
  
Tryggvi wrestled himself away from Francis’s grasp, just as wandering hands started making the transition to full-on groping hands. “Erzsébet and I finished all the inside stuff earlier today.” Tryggvi moved to help spread the bundles of schematics and floor plans over the large table Eduard had set his laptop on.

In the meantime, Erzsébet brought her own computer over next to Eduard’s and prepared to wow the silly men with her amazing reconnaissance skills ( _Tryggvi’s and her skills, to be precise, but Tryggvi never cared much for credit. Just cold, hard cash_ ). “We’ve been working overtime to get everything finished,” she chirped while she checked to make sure all of the camera feeds were still working. “In fact, if we get everything in order tonight, we’ll be ready to get the job done by tomorrow!”  
  
This time, Francis was the one who frowned. “So soon? I know you don’t like leaving your babies in other people’s homes for too long, dearest, but this seems sudden.” He reached out to grab Tryggvi, missed, and swore softly. “Why not wait for a day or two?”   
  
Eduard had been wondering the same thing. “Francis has a point, as loathe as I am to say it. We might find it in our interests to wait for a little while to make absolutely certain that we know what we are doing. Sunday might be a better day. Or Saturday, even.”

“Not Saturday!”   
  
Erzsébet’s fast protest had not been unexpected. Eduard idly wondered what was so important about Saturday. Maybe she had an appointment? Or maybe some men, in some other town, were planning to have hot animal sex in front of a camera that they didn’t know their nice neighbor ‘Anna’ had placed in their headboard. The image was troubling. It was even more troubling that the story had been truth only a few months earlier. Eduard had heard Erzsébet chatting about it with Francis. _Urgh_.  
  
“Guys guys guys!” The sharp sound of an excited Alfred and the soft fluttering of a falling sheet made the rest of the group pause in their bickering. Alfred’s new toys were done.  
  
“They’re called the iSpy 4.0! What do you guys think? Cool, right?”  
  
Maybe they were cool, in a sense. Eduard couldn’t quite find what that sense was, so he stayed quiet, in the hopes that Alfred would tell him.  
  
“What’s so impressive about them?” Tryggvi was never one to wait.   
  
“I have to agree, Alfred. People have been making spy cams that look like flies for years.” Then Erzsébet’s brain caught up with her mouth. “Which means yours have to be ten times more special, of course.”  
  
“You’re damn right they’re special.”  
  
“In what way?”  
  
Alfred winked at her. “You’ll see.”   
  


* * *

  
“So they can spy on things.”  
  
“Yep!”

“And they can go through really small holes?”  
  
“Exactly!”

“And a swarm of them can transform into a giant fighting robot?”  
  
Alfred’s grin could outshine a supernova. “I haven’t exactly worked out all the kinks yet on that part. But once I get enough of them built, they’ll totally be able to do that too!”  
  
Eduard blinked. “That’s very… nice, Alfred. But, ultimately, I don’t think these will be too much more useful than the cameras we already have. Tryggvi spent several hours today covering the entire house in them. Ah, I suppose I’m just trying to say that I expected—”  
  
Tryggvi said what Eduard couldn’t. “Tell us when they can fight Godzilla. And win. Until then, go back to working on the boats. We’ve got stuff to steal.”  
  
He completely expected Alfred to turn funny colors and sulk at the criticism. To Tryggvi’s surprise, Alfred only laughed. And agreed with him. “You’re right every time Mr. T! That’s what I thought too, until I figured out a way to make them badass all on their own.”  
  
This piqued Francis’s interest. “Please, my dear. _Enlighten_ us.”  
  
“They can kill people.”  
  
 _Silence_.  
  
“Of course, that’s only if you load them with the right stuff. Or, I guess, if you fly one down somebody’s throat or something like that. But then you’d be down one robot, so I don’t know why you’d want to do that unless you were really desperate.”  
  
Eduard’s face had taken a dark turn partway through Alfred’s speech. When he spoke, it was with the quietest, angriest voice most of the thieves had ever heard. “We steal, Alfred. We do not kill. _Anyone._ ”

“I know.” Alfred’s serious expression seemed at odds with his normally cheerful face. It was a strange sight to see. “So I didn’t put anything too dangerous in them. I don’t want somebody’s blood on my hands any more than you do, Eduard.”  
  
Francis carefully and cleanly broke the tension in the room. “You are both far more honorable than you seem at first glance, then. But we are forgetting the purpose of this meeting. We need to organize, plan, and move. And to do that,” here Francis gestured to the man who had been making sure to keep at least an arm’s length away at all times, “we need Tryggvi to tell us what he saw today.”  
  
Why did Francis always have to put attention on Tryggvi when people got angry and emotional? It was hard to slink out of a room when everyone in it was staring at you… Luckily for Tryggvi, Erzsébet saved him from the awkwardness of human interaction. “Francis is right! Let’s get down to business: now! I refuse to let you people hold us back any longer. We are doing this heist tomorrow night, _whether you like it or not._ ”  
  
Erzsébet wasn’t Danish scary, but she was still scary in her own right.  
  
“Now that that’s settled…Tryggvi! Tell them what you told me.” _That_ smile was back.  
  
Tryggvi had the idle thought that maybe, on some days, Hungarian scariness could give Danish scariness a run for its mon— bad analogy. Right. Maybe some days, Hungarian scariness could drag Danish scariness down a side alley, beat it up, steal its wallet and then skip merrily away. Yes. That sounded much better.  
  
“Okay. The house was like this…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friceland sounds like a cool pairing name, don’t you think? The next best thing to Spiceland.


	17. Maybe This Was a Bad Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through a combination of careful planning and intense stealth, the thieves rob Feliciano blind. But then everything goes wrong.

_“So how’d you get in?”  
  
“Sewer system.”_

_“That’s really gross, T.”  
  
“The important part, Alfred, is that it worked. You didn’t honestly think Tryggvi could just waltz in through the front door, did you?” Her voice could get so shrill when she was annoyed. “Maybe ask for something to drink, and oh, ‘please show me where all your valuables are?’”  
  
“Hey, no ganging up on me! I don’t know what I thought, okay? In movies, the information guy always goes undercover as the milkman, or shimmies up the drainpipe, or gets invited over for coffee or something.”  
  
“Your naïveté is especially alluring this evening, dear Alfred. Movies are a poor comparison to real life… perhaps later tonight you and I could have an in-depth discussion on the failings of adult films?”  
  
“Ha ha! You’re so gross, Francis.”  
  
“…just ignore them, Tryggvi. I’m listening.”  
  
“Sure. Like I said, I got into the house from underneath. Erzsébet had the idea that we should try underground, because every time her cameras picked up shipments of gold entering the house, Veneziano had them sent ‘downstairs’.”  
  
“That where the kitchen is?”  
  
Four voices rang out. “ **Alfred.** ”  
_

_“What? It’s a valid question! I just watched 2 straight hours of footage of the guy talking about food. Maybe he keeps the gold in the pasta cellar. It’s a logical conclusion.”  
  
“Hardly. This is Venice, Alfred. Few houses here have cellars.”  
  
“Hey wait a sec! You’re the one who was talking about going underground; how’d you know there was anywhere to go?”  
  
“She didn’t. That’s why she sent Tryggvi.”   
_

_“Besides, the kitchen’s on the main floor.”  
  
“Eh? How’d you know that, Tryggvi? I never showed you the kitchen footage…”  
  
“A free meal is a free meal.”  
_

* * *

_  
_If Alfred was feeling a little jumpier than usual, it was understandable. When Tryggvi had talked about getting to the house from the sewers, Alfred had assumed that meant manholes and alligators. But this? The passageways Alfred, Tryggvi and Eduard were currently walking through felt more like shrunken catacombs. Graves.  
  
Just as Alfred was about to let out a manly whimper of terror, Eduard’s voice came floating through the darkness “That’s just a shadow, Alfred, not a ghost.”  
  
“Wha— how did you know?”  
  
Eduard and Tryggvi paused, allowing Alfred, who was bringing up the rear, to finally catch up with them. The looks they gave him were respectively exasperated and blank. Alfred had been jumping at so many little noises and shadows that Eduard wasn’t quite sure why they had given him a gun and let him walk behind them.  
  
“Usually Erzsébet keeps him distracted.” Tryggvi was all too used to Alfred’s fears and paranoias.   
  
Alfred and Erzsébet were actually a fairly good team. Both were strong and could hold their own in a fight. They worked well together, and after a year or so of experience, their teamwork during a heist was impressive. Of the group of five, the American-Hungarian Amazing Fighting Duo ( _and Tryggvi_ ), were almost always the ones to actually carry out the team’s heists.  
  
Almost always.  
  
Occasionally Francis would replace Tryggvi in the formation, if the information-gathering portion of the job had called for a more flirtatious touch. Never before had Eduard ( _who had sworn up and down at their first meeting that he was worthless on the front lines_ ) replaced Erzsébet. Usually Eduard spent the duration of the heist safe and away in the current Central Command, monitoring Erzsébet’s cameras and remotely hacking into and disabling any security systems.  
  
“Look, I’m fine. It’s just really creepy down here, okay?” Alfred peered over his glasses at his partners. To his eyes, Tryggvi looked apprehensive and Eduard looked as though he was two seconds away from keeling over. “Let’s just get this over with. It’s not too far ahead, right?”   
  
Tryggvi nodded.  
  
“Then I’ll take the lead. If anything happens, run as fast as you can in the other direction and don’t trip over my robots.” Steeling his courage, because he couldn’t be the one who was afraid, not when the other two were depending on him, Alfred stepped forward into the gloom.  
  


* * *

 

_“I was just getting to that. When I was looking around for the house underground, I came across a series of extra passageways.”  
  
_

_“Passageways?”  
  
_

_“Yeah. It was hard to navigate through all of them, and I almost got stuck in one, but eventually I found an entrance.”  
  
_

_“So you found the gold already then? In the passage-thingys?”  
  
_

_“No. I found a giant steel door.”  
  
_

* * *

_  
_Alfred stopped when there was nowhere else for him to go. “This the door?”  
  
Tryggvi peered around Alfred and nodded. The giant steel door gave off a no-nonsense aura and looked completely out of place in the old, dank tunnel system. “This is it. Do you want me to open it?”  
  
Alfred’s left eyebrow twitched. “No. But you can hand over the iKey that you stole, thanks. I think I know how to use my own inventions.” He held out his hand. The one not holding the gun.  
  
Reluctantly, Tryggvi pulled the slim lock-picking tool out of his pocket and tossed it over to Alfred. It was a shame to lose the key at this point. Tryggvi lived his life never knowing when he would need to gain access to somewhere he technically wasn’t supposed to be… maybe he’d just have to ‘accidentally’ pick the iKey up again when Alfred wasn’t looking.  
  
After Alfred worked a little of his mechanical magic, the giant steel door silently swung open onto a brightly lit hallway. As Tryggvi made to take the lead again, and Alfred moved back to his cover position, Eduard paused. “Tryggvi.”  
  
He turned his head. “What?”  
  
“You said these passages aren’t used regularly?”  
  
“That’s what Erzsébet told me.” She hadn’t, actually, but they were so close to achieving their goal that Tryggvi was willing to smudge a few facts ( _No one goes down here, this passageway hasn’t been used in years, we’re going to be fine, I trust you two with my life_ ). Just so Eduard would stop worrying and they could keep going. Because Eduard seized up when he worried, and Alfred got upset when he worried. Tryggvi _always_ worried, so he knew he wouldn’t cause any extra problems. But, in his opinion, those other two should probably talk to a professional about their anxiety issues.  
  
“…I see. Right then, lead the way.”  
  


* * *

  
_“Of course darling, and the gold is just waiting for us behind the door, no?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“…what?”  
  
_

_“I got through that door with one of those weird keys Alfred made for the Scotland job.”  
  
“Hey wait a sec: I thought you said you lost yours! That iKey Platinum is mine. Give it back!”  
  
“Shut up, Alfred.”  
  
“But _ Erzsi _!”  
  
 **SMACK**  
  
She smiled. “Keep going, Tryggvi.”  
  
“I got through the door, and I came out on a weird hallway. It was really wide, but it wasn’t very long. There were only two other ways out, so I picked the one that took me past more decorations.”_   
  


* * *

  
The hallway was bright, cheerful and clean. The walls were decorated with colorful paintings, and small mobiles dangled from the ceiling. It looked like it could belong in any modern household, except for the fact that it was about three times as wide as any normal hallway. That and the several years’ worth of tire tracks and smudges all over the white flooring were fairly big giveaways.  
  
Eduard spoke first, and did so in a whisper. “Are we being monitored?” The question wasn’t directed at either of the men standing in front of him. Instead, it was directed at and answered by an anxious woman waiting in a large custom speedboat ( _“It’s the i’MaBoat Mark 6!”_ ) three canals over from the house Veneziano called home.  
  
“No. I’ve looped the surveillance feeds from a few nights ago. If anyone’s watching or listening, they shouldn’t figure out anything’s wrong for a few hours.” Erzsébet hated waiting. With a passion. She received no joy from monitoring her cameras in a situation like this, and when she couldn’t cover up her nervousness with adrenalin, she turned into something of a wreck. “Just keep going, guys. You’re doing fine.”  
  
“You will alert us to even the slightest deviation from the plan?”  
  
“ _Yes_ , Eduard. Now get back to work. We don’t have all night.” With that final remark, Erzsébet ended the conversation, set down her iTalk ( _another device custom-made by Alfred_ ), and returned to what she had been doing before Eduard had so rudely interrupted her.  
  
Watching her cameras.  
  
The entryway was clear. Red Tie sat in a chair by the door, reading a magazine. As the clock struck midnight, Green Tie entered the large room from the left. He nodded at Red Tie and then proceeded up the stairs. Just like he was supposed to.  
  
Just like _she_ was supposed to, Erzsébet switched her attention to the other screens mounted in front of her. Most of them flipped, every few seconds, between shots of empty rooms. The others showed various suited men lounging about inside Feli— Veneziano’s home. Everything was as it should be, and as she settled in for a few hours’ wait, Erzsébet hoped everything would stay that way.  
  
She’d been having… misgivings. About the entire affair. She wasn’t going to say anything about it, no, there wasn’t anyone she could talk to about this. But… for the first time since she met Francis, Erzsébet was starting to feel guilty about her job.   
  
The main monitor flickered. Now Green Tie was walking along a second floor hallway.  
  
Erzsébet resolved, as she watched the man turn a corner and give a cursory glance into a guest room, to stop worrying. The most important thing right now was to finish the job.  
  


* * *

  
_“…stealing from Veneziano before the heist wasn’t the wisest idea, Tryggvi. You may have seriously jeopardized tomorrow night’s operation.”  
  
He huffed. “I did steal anything. I just appraised a few works. Quickly.”_

_“And put them back exactly where you found them?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And you didn’t get caught doing this on camera?”  
  
“Erzsébet overrode all the security cameras.”  
  
“Alright then. I was just making sure.”  
  
“No need to be paranoid about it, Ed. T’s good at what he does!”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“So, my talented and wonderful friend, did you choose the right door?”  
  
“Sort of. It was actually a really big elevator, not a door. And I had to break into this one too. But there was only one button, and it was labeled ‘Storage~~!!’ so I assumed that was the right way to go.”_   
  


* * *

  
“I think that’s the cutest calligraphy I’ve ever seen.”  
  
“Eduard? Are you feeling alright?”  
  
He started and then turned to face his teammates. They were looking at him as though they had never seen him before. In Eduard’s defense, the handmade sign really could only be described as cute. Perhaps if Veneziano had added one or two more decorative hearts it would have been gaudy, but, as it was, the sign was almost too cute to handle.  
  
It reminded him of his boss. Not to say that his boss was cute, because Ivan Braginski was nothing of the sort. But Braginski had a strange fondness for cute things, like flowers and small helpless animals. He had decorated his office, for instance, in a sweeping sunflower motif. After years of exposure to that room and various other knickknacks, Eduard had a kneejerk dislike of cute things. Often they merely disgusted him.  
  
“It’s nothing. Alfred, take us where we need to go.”  
  
Alfred shrugged. “Whatever you say, Ed.”  
  
The elevator, once they were able to get inside it, was well matched to the little hallway. It was wide, expensively decorated and showed signs of extensive use. Which meant that Veneziano must have been transferring huge amounts of gold from his house to wherever the elevator led.  
  
Alfred pushed the only button, labeled with yet another handwritten sign, and the trio felt the elevator begin to rise. They were so close now… the air was practically buzzing with tension. Or maybe that was something else.  
  
“Hey Alfred?”  
  


“Yeah Mr. T?”

  
“You know that thing that’s been following us?”  
  


“Yeah?”

  
“What is it?”  
  
Alfred’s face took on a maniacal grin. “That’s one of my other new robots. The model’s called the iSteal 4.7. His name’s Tony, though. He’s gonna help us carry all the gold out, since that stuff weighs way too much for any of us to handle.”  
  
“Right. Why is it buzzing?”  
  
“ _He’s_ buzzing because I told him to arm his lasers as soon as we got to the hallway you talked about earlier. I know I’ve got the gun and all, just in case, but Tony’s a way better shot than me.”  
  
So it was armed. “Oh.”  
  
Eduard hadn’t said anything before, out of politeness, but now that Tryggvi had already successfully asked about the robot ( _thing_ ) in the corner… “Why does it look so angry?”  
  
The robot turned its head with a speed no human could match. It didn’t help that it looked just vaguely human-like enough to be reasonably creepy. It also didn’t help that its gaze was now locked on Eduard’s face, and that it followed every little shift and movement Eduard made.  
  
Alfred’s glasses glinted under the overhead lights. “Tony’s not angry, Ed.”  
  
“Th-that’s good.”  
  
“He just doesn’t like you.”  
  
Well. That was wonderful. The super strong, super-fast, vaguely homicidal looking robot didn’t like him.   
  
The elevator dinged when it reached its destination. As the doors opened, Alfred and Eduard blinked in surprise, while Tryggvi nonchalantly stepped forward. Tony didn’t step so much as glide out the doors, his ‘face’ watching Eduard the entire time.  
  


* * *

  
 _”After I took the elevator up, it was pretty easy to figure out how Veneziano stores all that gold.”  
  
“How?”_   
  


* * *

  
It was so simple.  
  
The building, the big building right next to Veneziano’s own, was a fake. Alfred spun around in circles as he exited the elevator, taking everything in like a kid in a giant, warehouse-like candy store. Beside him, Eduard hummed his approval. Veneziano was smarter than he looked, and Eduard appreciated intelligence in others, even when it was guarded.   
  
The building they were currently standing in looked like a five floor mansion on the outside, complete with complicated architectural adornments and a well-kept garden. Smoke was always rising from the several chimneys atop the roof, and lovely white curtains fluttered from the home’s picturesque, half open windows.  
  
And it was all a lie.  
  
Because the elegant, homey mansion was really just a façade, and five feet beyond the delicate curtains on every window were cheery yellow walls. Cheery yellow walls of 3 foot thick, reinforced, bullet-proof steel. The inside of the mansion was a hollow shell, save for support pillars dotting the single open room. A deep red forklift, obviously the reason for the wear and tear on the floors of the hallway below, sat several yards away from the elevator. Eduard could spy a full sized work station a little further away, and… and was that a real forge?  
  
“Hey Ed, T, look at all this awesome stuff!” Alfred called from across the room. Neither responded to him, because frankly, the cylindrical room-within-the-room was far more interesting. Alfred pouted as he jogged over to the two men and the robot. “Yeah, fine… I guess the big shiny circle room’s cool too.”  
  
“This is as far as I got. Now what?” Tryggvi crossed his arms and looked over at Eduard.  
  
He was already busy setting up his computer in front of the thick doors of the shining silver cylinder.  
  


* * *

  
_“ Were you able to personally verify that the gold was in the final room?”  
  
“There was gold dust on the outer room’s floor, and the inner room had a sign on the outside that said ‘Feli’s Money! Ask before entering  <3’.”  
  
“You’ve done very good work, Tryggvi. I see… yes. Yes. This is what we’ll have to do…”_   
  


* * *

  
Francis had heard nothing from any of his teammates in over two hours. He had been waiting, alone, in one of Alfred’s boats since 11pm, and frankly he was getting tired of it. Francis wasn’t just some stupid old financial backer; he was an intelligent, _young_ financial backer who also happened to be a good conversationalist and a fair golfer. And a full member of the team.  
  
He’d had enough. He picked up his iTalk and pressed the button that would connect him to Erzsébet.  
  
 _Ring._  
  
…  
  
 _Ring._  
  
…  
  
 _Ring._  
  
Fine. He closed the phone again, and sat back in his chair. He could wait. Francis was very good at waiting for what he wanted. And when he had the opportunity, he would get it. It was all very simple.  
  


* * *

  
_”Veneziano won’t be home until 3am, correct?”  
  
“Correct.”_

_“There will only be four guards remaining in the house after Veneziano leaves. One will remain in the entryway and survey the front walk. Two of the others are in charge of the second and third floors. The fourth makes rounds of the entire household, but only checks the connecting hallway once every…”  
_

_“Every two hours.”_

_“Yes. Thank you, Erzsébet. He checks the hallway once every two hours, but does not enter the storage building. This should give us more than enough time to gather the gold, transport it out of the underground tunnel and into the canals above.”  
  
_

* * *

_  
_“It’s been an hour already, Ed.” Alfred was beginning to get impatient. His attention span had shown amazing endurance so far; Tryggvi hadn’t thought he’d make it more than 10 minutes. Tryggvi himself had no problem with the wait. He’d picked a support pillar near the central room after the first 5 minutes and after the first 10 had settled against it for a light nap. If Eduard hadn’t been able to crack the security system in 5 minutes, then they might very well be there for another hour. Tryggvi might as well get some rest in the meantime.  
  
Eduard didn’t process Alfred’s question. He didn’t process Alfred’s pacing or Tryggvi’s napping. Eduard was immersed in his work; the door’s security system was by far the most complex he had ever seen. It both exhilarated Eduard and terrified him, because he had been working for Ivan Braginski for years, and he knew what such heavy security meant. Veneziano – no, Feliciano Vargas, might be an eccentric painter. But Eduard von Bock had realized after the first 37 minutes of trying to hack into the painter’s home security system, without missing a beat, that he was 30 and a genius, but still very, _very_ stupid.  
  
How could he have missed it when Erzsébet had first given him all the information she had collected on their mark? Feliciano Vargas. They had called him Veneziano to distance themselves. The painter. So that they would only be stealing from another mark, not from a person. It was a silly defense mechanism, but it certainly made Eduard feel better about the whole business. But how stupid had he been? Feliciano Vargas.  
  
Vargas.  
  
 _Vargas._  
  
The man was a Vargas. Eduard had been working directly under Braginski for long enough to know that no one in the world wanted to mess with Ivan Braginski. Eduard had been working directly under Braginski for long enough to also know that some people in the world didn’t care if they messed with Ivan Braginski or not, and a large bulk of those people included the Russo family of Italy.   
  
Eduard had been working for Ivan the Terrible ( _that was what Tino sometimes called him. Eduard didn’t allow himself to laugh at the joke because secretly he was afraid that he would come back from a visit to Finland and Braginski would already know and. And he would be unhappy. And_ ) for long enough to know that only a handful of people in the world had directly fought with Ivan Braginski and walked away. One of those people was a member of the Russo family, although not by blood.   
  
Romolo _Vargas_.  
  
23 minutes after the memories piled up and overflowed in his mind, Eduard was still working as furiously as he had when he had begun. He had his pride, but that wasn’t very important. Eduard wasn’t prepared to die for his pride. Eduard wasn’t prepared to die at all, in fact, and he _couldn’t_ go back to Moscow empty handed.  
  
The sound of racing keystrokes and solid footsteps echoed across the empty room, until twin chimes cut through the night.  
  
“Finally.”

“Shit.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Tryggvi opened his eyes as Eduard wiped the sweat from his forehead and began to pack up his computer. The doors to the gold storage room were opening… that was a good sign. Now they could just take their treasure and leave. But then Tryggvi caught the look on Alfred’s face as he gazed down at his iTalk.  
  
Alfred’s iTalk was a little different than everyone else on the team’s. The other iTalks were well designed, with a very trendy silver finish. But they were all exactly the same. Alfred’s, however, was a little bit thinner and emblazoned with an American flag pattern. Tryggvi would bet it was also ten times more powerful than whatever Alfred let the rest of them use.  
  
“Tryggvi? Alfred? Ah, the room’s open now. We can do what we came here to do. And frankly, I suggest we do it quickly.” Eduard tiredly looked from one teammate to the other.  
  
Alfred tapped a few buttons on his phone and then stowed it safely in his pants pocket. He motioned Tony towards the open inner room and began striding towards the red forklift. “You’re right about that.”  
  
“Alfred?”

“We have a problem,” Alfred shouted over the din of the machine as he drove it closer. “One of my iSpys just reported incapacitating a man in the connecting hallway downstairs. He was heading towards the elevator. I just checked the camera feed against the records on my phone, and it was one of Veneziano’s guards.” Tony began stacking gold bars onto the forklift as Alfred killed the engine and pulled out his phone again.  
  
Eduard’s mind went blank. “Why didn’t Erzsébet notify us of this? That– no one was supposed to be going down there for another hour!”  
  
Alfred was calm, at least, so Tryggvi decided to do the smart thing and help the robot lift gold bars onto the forklift.  
  
“I don’t know why. Call her. Call Francis, too, and get him to come around as close as he can to begin packing up the loot.”  
  
This was absurd. “What are you going to do?”  
  
“You don’t think Tony can carry all of that himself, do you?” Alfred gestured into the circular room filled to the brim with beautiful, gleaming gold. “My whales are waiting in the tunnel to transport it all. I’m going to go downstairs and bring them back up here to speed the process along.” With that, Alfred dismounted the forklift and, without another word, disappeared into the elevator.  
  
Eduard did the only thing he could do. He called Erzsébet.  
  
 _Ring._  
  
…  
  
 _Ring._  
  
…  
  
 _Ri—_ “Eduard?”  
  
“Erzsébet! What took you so long? What have you been doing, things haven’t been going according to plan!”  
  
Erzsébet made sure her sigh wasn’t conveyed over the phone. How was she supposed to tell Eduard that she had spent the better part of the last hour in a daze, staring at the stationary view provided for her in her lowest left monitor? She had paused the camera feed in the sitting room view on a whim. Some of the paintings had looked pretty, and frankly, after 37 minutes she had gotten bored of waiting. Besides, Erzsébet could multitask like nobody’s business. She could browse one camera’s view while still checking in on the others out of the corner of her eye.  
  
But then she had zoomed in on the far corner of the room, and she had seen him. It.  
  
Roderich.  
  
There were sketches and paintings of Roderich in Feliciano’s house so real that Erzsébet felt like she was standing in front of the musician again. Feliciano knew Roderich. He had to, to have things so personal framed on his sitting room wall. Roderich was a nice, cute man. She had a date with him in less than a day. Feliciano was a nice, cute man. She had chatted with him for hours over everything and nothing. And she was currently robbing him blind.  
  
Erzsébet had missed Francis’s phone call on accident. She had only just barely noticed Eduard’s. “Eduard, what? What are you talking about?”  
  
Now he was mad. “One of Alfred’s bugs had to attack a guard. He was headed up to the elevator that leads directly to where we are. _Why didn’t you tell us about this._ ”  
  
She could hear that that wasn’t a question, so she made no excuses. “I’m heading over now. I— We’re going to finish this.”  
  
Eduard hung up.  
  
Francis answered on the first ring.  
  
“Francis. Get over here, now.”  
  
Finally. “In a heartbeat.”  
  


* * *

  
_“We shall split the takings as we usually do for the escape. Alfred, you will take the empty boat and distract any followers for as long as you can.  
  
“I thought we were supposed to have enough time to get away undetected.”  
  
“We should, but I am not so inexperienced to allow myself to believe that we won’t be followed at all. It is better to take precautions. Even if you aren’t followed immediately, try to stay out and away from this hideout for at least an hour. No more than two.”  
  
“All right…”  
  
“Good. Now, Erzsébet and I will take the boats filled with the most cargo in a winding path back here. Ah, Alfred, you are sure your boats will be able to handle the weight? Gold is quite heavy, and Erzsébet has reported a substantial amount should be in the storage room.”  
  
“Oh, that stuff’s all worked out. You could put a Hummer in one of these babies and you’d barely even notice it.”  
  
“How does that even work?”  
  
“Don’t question my mojo, T.”  
  
“…Right. Tryggvi and Francis will take several smaller amounts directly back to base. That should be that.”  
  
_

* * *

_  
_Feliciano giggled as he tumbled up his front walk. Ludwig was a sentimental drunk, and he himself was a clingy drunk, and Venice at night was beautiful. He was a little disappointed that Ludwig had imbibed just a _little_ too much that night for Feliciano to feel quite right about hitting on him. Oh well. There were always other nights, and at least Feliciano had been able to stay close and hold Ludwig for the entire walk home.  
  
It was strange, though, that he had had to open his front door all on his own. Usually the men did that for him, since they ( _almost_ ) always knew where Feliciano was. It was also so very strange that the front entryway was deserted.  
  
“Ve… anyone? Hello? Where is everybody?”  
  
Feliciano set Ludwig down on the stairs and wobbled over towards the kitchen. Maybe the men were making themselves a late night snack? Feliciano knew that he liked to do that, quite often, really. So maybe that was it.  
  
But the kitchen was deserted too.  
  
Feliciano’s worries went away as he finally made his way back to the front entrance. “There you three are, ve! Where have you beeeeen?” He collapsed next to Ludwig on the stairs and smiled up at his brother’s strange helpers. “Ve, are we having a party?”  
  
They babbled at him, all at once. Someone was missing, hadn’t been seen for half an hour, and some others had been called back from their dates ( _against his direct orders too, ve._ ), and stay right here where it’s safe, Mr. Feliciano, we’re going to check _downstairs_ , just in case. It’s probably nothing, Mr. Feliciano, don’t worry, Mr. Feliciano.  
  
Just stay here.  
  
Mr. Feliciano rarely worried, but of those times when he decided to let himself, the whole wretched process usually started after someone told him not to. So Mr. Feliciano started worrying. And with good cause too, he learned, as the shouting and noises from _downstairs_ escalated and were those gunshots? What was going on?!  
  
One of the men ran up towards Feliciano from the direction of _downstairs_. He was bleeding. Mr. Feliciano had passed the point of worrying into some vague drunken version of blind panic.  
  
The man easily grabbed both Feliciano and Ludwig, and hauled the two to their feet. “Mr. Feliciano, Mr. Beilschmidt, there has been a slight disturbance in the storage unit, but we are getting it under control as we speak.” The man began quickly half dragging the two upstairs, and shoved them towards Feliciano’s private hallway once they reached the second floor.  
  
“What’s going on? Why are you bleeding?”  
  
“I am returning downstairs, Mr. Feliciano. Please stay here and, uh… and maybe you should hide. Just for a little bit, though. Just until we have things sorted out. Everything’s going to be fine.” And with that, the man rushed away.  
  
Somehow, Feliciano pulled Ludwig and himself into his room at the very end of the hall. He left Ludwig on his king-sized bed ( _he finally had gotten Ludwig onto his bed, but this was nothing like how he had wanted it to be!_ ), barred the suite’s door with a dresser, and locked himself in the master bath.  
  
Something was really wrong, wrong in the way that Feliciano sometimes got death threats and wasn’t allowed to go to certain parties wrong. He pulled out his phone. As scared as he was, and as reluctant he was to get yelled at, Feliciano needed to hear his brother tell him everything was going to be alright ( _Lovino hadn’t said those words to him since their mother had died. But Feliciano hadn’t been this scared since then either_ ).  
  
The phone rang, and then it stopped.  
  
“Do you fucking know **what time it is**?”  
  
“L-lovi, ve, something’s… I think something’s really wrong here. Something’s wrong. There was blood and… and, ve, I’m really scared Lovi…”

* * *

  
_“Any questions? No? Good. We move tomorrow night.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! Are you excited? I know I am: now I can legitimately call this a heist story! Also: voiceover exposition + the action onscreen seems pretty standard for heist movies. The blocks of italics = the past, in this part. Double also: if anything seems weird… that’s just cause I’m making everything up. And because I wrote the bulk of this while watching hours of crime shows. Damn this part was long.


	18. Things Fall Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred and Francis race to escape their pursuers while back at the safehouse, everyone else worries and points fingers. Who is the traitor?

When he’d decided to check _downstairs_ , he hadn’t thought he’d ever find anything. Everybody knew the guy they were all looking for smoked like a house on fire; he was probably off in a dark corner of the back garden letting out some stress. Lord, but that sounded like it would hit the spot. Especially after so much searching.  
  
The elevator dinged and the stainless-steel doors reflected the searcher’s bright red tie as they opened, revealing a strange tableau. The body of the missing man sprawled out over the floor was hard to miss. Equally hard not to notice was the half-open service door that led up to the canals above. It took the searcher a few seconds to wrench his gaze from the bright green of his co-worker’s tie and the thick darkness of the service tunnel. The colors were razor sharp against the mostly white hallway. And against the mostly white robot standing a few feet in front of the open elevator doors on the other end of the passageway.  
  
Shitfuck this couldn’t be good.  
  
The robot wasn’t very tall, but its bright red gaze felt like it was piercing holes in his stomach. He looked down. It was difficult to spot against the color of his tie, but the little red pinprick of light that fell on the searcher’s dark suit jacket looked suspiciously like… like a gun sight. Time slowed as the strange robot raised one of its limbs ( _arms_ ), and formed its little hand into a gun.  
  
It pantomimed a shot.  
  
Except it wasn’t a pantomime after all, because a loud bang sounded and all of a sudden there was a bullet in the air. Time sped up again as the searcher threw himself back behind his own elevator’s door and slammed his hand against the ‘><’ button onetwothreefour as many times as he could. He’d been grazed by bullets before, working for The Boss and all. This would be fine except somebody with a freaky robot had been through the storage, and now his head was getting all woozy, and if this was as bad as he was sure it was, those intruders would be the least of his problems when The Boss got back from Spain.  
  
Shit.  
  
When the doors finally closed again, the elevator dinged again, and across the hall Eduard allowed himself to breathe again.  
  
Alfred was all movement. “Okay, Tony just bought us a little time, but then they’re gonna be after us full-force, I bet.” As he stepped through the elevator door and around his robot, Alfred looked back at the other two thieves. “Guys? We’ve gotta get going.”  
  
From their hiding places against the sides of the elevator, Tryggvi and Eduard digested what Alfred had said. It took no more than a moment of hesitation from each of them before they both rocketed out of the elevator. Neither wanted to be anywhere near the hallway when help arrived.  
  
“So what now?”  
  
Eduard looked at Tryggvi out of the corner of his eye as they both ran for the door, but Alfred beat him to a response. “Now we get the hell out of here.”  
  
Tryggvi and Eduard ran. They passed Tony. They passed Alfred. They passed the door to the tunnels. There were still one or two of Alfred’s all-terrain custom transport vehicles, affectionately known as land whales, lingering on the other side. Tryggvi and Eduard passed them too.  
  
They did not have enough time to pass through the darkness, however, before the dainty little _ding_ of an arriving elevator echoed through their ears.  
  
Help had arrived.  
  
Suddenly, the service door slammed shut and Tryggvi and Eduard were truly in darkness. For about a second, because the shaky beam of Alfred’s flashlight soon lit up the way to safety, even as bangs and crashes and the robot’s buzzing filled the tunnel behind them.  
  
“I’m right behind you!” They hadn’t stopped running. “Tony will catch up with us as soon as he can!”  
  
So much for a clean job.  
  


* * *

  
Francis joined Eduard’s gang of thieves because he craved excitement. He was certainly getting his money’s worth now.  
  
“Alfred! Slow down up there!”   
  
The reply Francis got over his speedboat’s radio was an unsatisfying chuckle and whoop of glee. Alfred’s good nature could be uplifting and infectious, if it didn’t become the cause of Francis’s _untimely death_. Because they were being chased by a bunch of gun-toting thugs, and although he was sure that he would make a beautiful corpse, Francis was of the opinion that he looked his very best when he was _alive_.  
  
And they were getting farther and farther away from Francis’s summer home slash safehouse.  
  
And Francis was being shot at. Repeatedly.  
  
He did not like this form of excitement as much as he liked flirting with the help or stealing priceless works of art. There was the danger of grave bodily harm or death or even actual jail time here, and Francis would only accept those risks if they involved particularly rare and unique adult toys. Or if they only applied to other people.  
  
A bullet whizzed by his left ear. He couldn’t keep this up.  
  
“Alfred, my darling _darling_ genius, I believe the base is back that way. We should turn left at the crossroads here.”  
  
Of course Alfred would respond by turning right so sharply that the spray from his wake would careen over the sides of the canal and up onto the walkways. How were they not being heard with all the ruckus? What with the roaring of engines, shouting, gunfire and mini tidal waves courtesy of Alfred’s horrible American boatmanship, even Francis’s most clueless friend from boarding school would have guessed that something strange was going on in the canals of Venice.  
  
That was saying something.  
  
Finally Alfred deigned to respond with words. “Well yeah, that’s the faster way back. But we’re not going back, duh.”  
  
Francis could have been asleep right now. “ _Please_ enlighten me as to where we are going then. My _dear_.”

“Whoa, hey, no need to be all hostile, man. I didn’t come up with the plan; I’m just sticking to it! Ed said to draw their fire and confuse ‘em, and _then_ go back to base.” Alfred’s boat made a swerving left that left Francis mystified as to how Alfred was still afloat. He followed, without the recklessness.  
  
Francis could have been asleep right now, safe in his own bed. “Is there nothing you can do to make this process go any faster? It’s very tiring.” Something small and white threw itself off of the end of Alfred’s boat, and within a second Francis had already passed it by.   
  
“Tony’s got it all taken care of.”  
  
Francis could have been asleep right now, moderately safe in _Tryggvi’s_ bed. “Your robot can float?”  
  
A scoff. “ _No_. Tony doesn’t float. He _swims_.”  
  
Apparently even Francis’s less than appropriate _thoughts_ were accumulating bad karma for him, because he swore upon good food and the Eiffel Tower that the heat from the explosion right behind him had burned off some of his hair. His perfect, styled-to-look-effortless hair. Alfred would not be able to get out of _compensating_ Francis this time.  
  


* * *

  
Erzsébet had hit the throttle and hadn’t looked back once she’d heard the gunshots. She’d gotten scared. Not scared of dying, because she hadn’t connected the loud noises with death. No, she’d been scared of failure and betrayal, and the sinking feeling that somehow this was all her fault. They’d failed because of her.  
  
Tryggvi, Eduard and Alfred were in danger because of her.  
  
By the time she got back to the safe house, Erzsébet was a wreck. It didn’t help, then, that the moment she opened the front door she was plunged into a shouting match.  
  
“Master Francis?” Even Vash was awake and accusatory.  
  
“No. It’s just Erzsébet.” Tryggvi had made it back safely.  
  
“Erzsébet? Where the _hell_ were you?! What happened back there?” Eduard had made it back too, without sustaining any obvious damage. She was glad.  
  
“Just stop shouting at me, alright? Can I just sit down?”  
  
“Fine, whatever, sit. Where are Francis and Alfred?”  
  
Oh no. “Th-they aren’t already here? They should be back already.”  
  
“Thank you for stating the obvious, Miss Erzsébet.” Vash was not a very good butler when it was 2am and his charge was unaccounted for. He didn’t seem to have a firearm within reach, but that didn’t stop Erzsébet from pulling her chair a tiny bit farther away from him.  
  
“Francis and Alfred can take care of themselves.” Of this Tryggvi was certain. “More importantly, where’d you stash all the gold?”  
  
Erzsébet was appalled. Their friends were in danger, maybe even dead, and all the greedy little bastard could worry about was _money_? That was what had gotten them into this sorry mess! “How should I know? Nothing was loaded onto my boat before we all had to split up. You should be asking Eduard that question; they filled his boat first.”  
  
Eduard’s eyes darkened behind his glasses. “Are you sure about that? Mine was empty too. So was Tryggvi’s.”  
  
“Well then Francis and Alfred must have it all, and they’ll be back any minute and we can split the takings and get out of here.”  
  
Now Tryggvi’s face took a darker turn. “Is that the truth? Because it’s hard to believe you.”  
  
Erzsébet was outraged. “What?!”  
  
Eduard stood. “What were you doing this evening, Erzsébet? What kept you so preoccupied that you didn’t even notice a guard getting close to our location? Why didn’t you radio when the other guards were coming after us with _guns_?”  
  
What was she supposed to say? That she’d already run away by that point?  
  
Tryggvi was the next to speak, frank as ever. “We think you switched the gold to your boat and took off. And maybe did something to Francis and Alfred.”  
  
“That’s a lie! I did no such thing!”  
  
“Then what were you _really_ doing, Miss?”  
  
Erzsébet realized what was happening now. Vash, Tryggvi and Eduard were boxing her in, both verbally and physically. Because they didn’t trust her, and they thought she was the sort of criminal who would steal from criminals. From friends. Well, anyone could play the suspicion game.  
  
“I’d like to ask that of either of you two, actually. You both had ample opportunity to either hide the gold or even hide the dead bodies of Alfred and Francis before I got back! Show me some proof that one of you isn’t a greedy, murdering traitor!”  
  
Vash stepped back to survey all three remaining members of the team. He was impartial here; all that mattered to him was getting Master Francis back before Master Francis could do any more shame to the Bonnefoy name. He would listen, and he would strike if he needed to.  
  
“I’m not a traitor.” But everybody knew that Tryggvi was greedy. He was upfront about his quest for money, and eventually his drive to get just one more cent faded out of mind in the face of the rest of his personality. Just not right now.  
  
“You said once that you would do anything for a dollar. Although Kroner were acceptable and Euros were preferable. And you were unaccounted for too, tonight.” Eduard was on a roll. “I never thought you were the type to kill out of your lust for money, Tryggvi.” He looked so disappointed.  
  
Tryggvi sprung to the defensive. “I wouldn’t kill anyone for money. I’m not a hitman. I’m not that desperate.”  
  
Erzsébet reached back into her memory and pulled out the dirtiest dirt she could remember from the top of her head. “Not desperate, huh? I know you blew Francis for 150 Euro.”  
  
Those shifty, shifty eyes were not helping him. Not now. “I needed the money.”  
  
“You _always_ need the money.” Eduard’s voice rang through the entryway of the safe house. It was accusing and disgusted, and Tryggvi wasn’t about to take that from someone that couldn’t possibly understand the kind of life he’d had.  
  
“Yeah? Well with you around, I’m surprised we haven’t been slaughtered in our sleep yet.”  
  
“How _dare_ you accuse me of something like that?”

“You work for Ivan Braginski. Backstabbing should be a normal day for you.”  
  
Eduard shored his own defenses. “What? How did you know that?”  
  
He wasn’t denying it. Erzsébet tried to process all the things she’d ever heard about Russian crime and Ivan Braginski, and match it up to what she knew about Eduard. “You’re working for a madman and you didn’t tell us? Right now?!”  
  
Erzsébet wasn’t boxed in anymore, not since Vash had disappeared upstairs and Tryggvi and Eduard looked as though they were about to come to blows. “Answer my question, Tryggvi. _How did you know that?_ ” He twisted Tryggvi’s ( _so young, almost still just a boy_ ) arm.  
  
“Ow! Get your hands off me, I hear things okay?” Mr. Väinämöinen mumbled to himself sometimes. Especially when business was slow at the bar.  
  
Eduard released him with a shove. “Well you misheard this.”  
  
Erzsébet dived back into the fray. “Did he? Why are you always late to our meetings? Why do you know so much about grand theft? _Who are you always calling?_ ”  
  
The easy answer was that Eduard was always calling his boss because if an underling like Eduard didn’t file a detailed report with Braginski, the man would assume that an underling like Eduard had tried to escape their happy little family. Those that tried to leave were _brought back_. Eduard did not want to have that happen to him.  
  
He was saved from having to answer when Vash stamped down the stairs, wielding a formidable black case strapped to his back and a handgun for each black-gloved hand.  
  
“Vash?”  
  


“This is useless. You three, are useless. I am getting Master Francis back myself.” He left a stunned, mistrustful silence in his wake.  
  


* * *

  
Many canals away, on the other side of town, Feliciano Vargas’s mansion was quiet. Not a sound could be heard outside of it, and only someone with good ears would be able to pick up on the light snoring coming from the locked master bedroom. Only someone with exceptional hearing would be able to pick out the soft crying of the master of the house himself coming from his unlocked bathroom.  
  
Anyone could hear the low rumble of an unfamiliar boat, as it pulled up directly in front of the mansion. Or the steady patter of unfamiliar footsteps clattering up the front walk. Or the wooden crash as the front door broke free from its hinges.  
  
But there was no one around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what’s difficult? Writing a bunch of OCs that don’t have names outside of Lovino’s head. So I copped out by giving them standard tie colors. And who said anything about requited Friceland? Anyway, next time: you get to see a brother’s wrath and after that you finally get to learn who the betrayer was. I don’t know if it’ll really be the least likely person, but I hope the way it turns out surprises someone. ~~If not, then feel free to lie to me.~~


	19. A Phone Call of Significantly Less Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once he lands, Lovino makes a call for information to a ~~reliable source~~ ~~old friend~~ ~~old girlfriend~~ heinous bitch. Back in Spain, Antonio wants answers.

He didn’t even hear a ring before she answered. She must have just been sitting there, smirking to herself as she waited for him to call her. Bitch.  
  
“Good _morning_ , Lovi. To what do I owe the honor of hearing your voice? Especially on what’s promising to be such a lovely morning. And here I thought you were a late riser.”  
  
“Lotte, you bitch.”  
  
“Oh? I’m a bitch now? That’s cruel, Lovi, it really is. I answer your phone calls at ridiculous hours, I do you favors… not to mention the rest of our history! And this is the thanks I get?”  
  
She was so damn smug. “Cut the act. And stop calling me that.”  
  
“What?”  
  
She was impossible to deal with. “ _You know._ ”  
  
“Oh, you mean ‘Lovi?’ Was that it?”  
  
He hated her. He really did. “…”  
  
“That’s right, isn’t it? You only allow _family_ to call you that. The rest of us have to stick to boring old ‘Lovino’ or ‘Boss’ or ‘Romolo’s mean grandkid.’ It’s so unfair, that you only let your _family_ call you that. ‘Lovi’ is such an adorable name, don’t you think?”  
  
She knew. Lovino shouldn’t have been surprised ( _Lotte made it her business to know things; it was why he’d called her in the first place_ ), but he was. Lotte knew, which meant that if he didn’t play his cards right everyone would know. And this was no one’s business but his own. Well, maybe Antonio had something to do with it too. Maybe.  
  
“Just shut up about that, okay?” Damn it all. His voice still ran high when he got too anxious. He took a second to get it under control. “That’s not what I called you about, and you know it.”  
  
“Now, now, _Lovino_. You don’t have to be shy. There’s nothing to be ashamed about, lusting after men is perfectly natural: I do it all the time!” Fuck, she wasn’t stopping. She’d probably been planning this speech. “I’ve heard once a guy’s had a piece of delicious man-flesh he never goes back… so is it true?”  
  
He was probably as red as a cherry tomato by now. Good thing he was still in the cockpit of his personal jet. In its hangar. Alone. Where no one could see him. “Bitch. Shut _up_.”  
  
“Play nice _Lovino_. Just because you don’t get any satisfaction from ladies anymore doesn’t mean we don’t have feelings too. Would you like to talk about feelings now, actually? We can do it while we chat about boys together!”  
  
Lovino decided that the best course of action would be to change the subject. “You knew I was going to call you, which means you knew about my brother. Why didn’t you call me first?”  
  
The lilting laugh hadn’t left her voice when she decided to respond. “What is this about your brother? I know that Feliciano’s a darling, if that’s what you mean. And that his art is absolutely gor—”  
  
“Don’t be fucking coy, Lotte, you aren’t any good at it. What happened to my brother today?”  
  
“Well, I _suppose_ I can tell you, even though you’ve been so rude to me. I know it’s taken a lot of courage from you to ask for help. God knows that’s not a trait you normally possess. Did you learn it from your boytoy?”  
  
Maybe if he didn’t respond she would let it go and fucking shut up and just answer his damn question.  
  
She did. “…oh fine. I have it on good account that your cute and much more agreeable little brother got into a small fix this morning. Word along the wire is that he was robbed. All his gold, gone.”  
  
Lovino had too many questions, but he had to focus. Try to focus. “Just robbed? Nothing else, he’s fine?”  
  
“As far as I know,” which was basically a ‘yes, stupid’ coming from Lotte.  
  
As for the second-most important thing…“‘Word along the wire’ had better have been a stupid saying, because if I find out you’ve been spreading this information, so help me… who else knows?” Lovino would have to do damage control once the immediate problem was solved. The Vargas family reflected on the Russo family and neither could afford to be perceived as weak. Dammit, he hated having to silence people just for knowing things.  
  
“Nobody.”

“What?”  
  
“I have very special contacts, _Lovino_. Outside of the people involved, the only ones who know about this embarrassing little event are you and me. And don’t you want to keep it that way?”  
  
He started mentally going through a list of the people he knew she got information from. “Who was it?”  
  
“Trade secret.”

“Fuck, Lotte.”  
  
“Nuh uh, you only do that with men nowadays, don’t you remember?”  
  
Not _that_ again… He could control his rage. He could. Just breathe in, and out, and picture the calm ocean, and “fuck off you stupid bitch.” So his usual techniques weren’t working. So fine. Deep breaths. Imagine the bakery… “Is there _anything_ useful you can tell me? Anything?” He was desperate enough to willingly give her the upper hand in a conversation.  
  
“I know how you can get all the gold back,” Lovino rushed to interrupt her, but she must have anticipated that too, because, “so just let me speak for once. I have it on _very_ good authority that the thieves who stole from your brother had a little spat between themselves. One of them ran off with everything and the rest are looking to get their loot back.”  
  
“…how do you know all this.” It wasn’t even a question.  
  
“I told you, _Lovino_ , trade secret. Now, I have it on even _better_ authority that these remaining thieves are expecting an informant in three hours, to up their numbers and help them get around the city and steal back what they stole in the first place!”  
  
“So what, I crash the meeting? That’s not going to help me get Feliciano’s money back. Damn it, he _earned_ all of that. Fairly. Cleanly.”  
  
She huffed into the phone, as she usually did when she thought she was so clever and he apparently just wasn’t _getting_ it. “You’re just not _getting_ it, _Lovino_. They’re waiting for a wretched, scruffy, bad-mouthed little Italian kid to show them around Venice, be their errand boy and help them further their lives of crime. Does that sound familiar to you?”  
  
Bitch.  
  
“You could have just out and said that you _know_ the fucks who robbed Feliciano, and that you hired me out like some sort of information whore to them!”  
  
“Oh, but you used to be fine with me lending your talents out. _Lovino_ you’ve changed so much now that you’ve discovered your homosexual tendencies. I mean, you used to at least _pretend_ to be nice to me.”  
  
She would never stop. Not even if he had an orgy with 100 women right in front of her. Not even if he ( _gave in, and_ ) flew to Brussels and broke into her apartment, just so he could physically throw himself out of a closet. Never. “Just tell me where I need to be, when I need to be there, and who I’m not supposed to kill.”  
  
“I’d hope you wouldn’t kill any of them. The stories I’ve heard about them all sound very amusing.”  
  
“ _Lotte…_ ”  
  
“You’re no fun anymore, Lovino Vargas. I hope you know that.”  
  


* * *

  
Antonio had woken up in the middle of the night. It wasn’t hard to figure out why: his Lovi-senses were tingling. He just knew it. And not the _usual_ Lovi-senses that woke him up in the middle of the night, either. This feeling wasn’t nice and sexy at all.  
  
He made short work of breaking into the villa where Lovi was staying. But he didn’t quite make it to the room Lovi was supposed to be sleeping in at that moment, because a familiar man with a dark blue tie stopped him in the hallway right outside.  
  
“What are you doing here, Mr. Fernandez?” It was strange that the man still asked silly questions like that. Over the years he should have learned that nothing could keep Antonio away when something bad was happening to Lovino. Compared to the shootouts and fistfights, picking a few locks and sneaking up the back way to Lovi’s room was a soft day in the sun.  
  
“Where’s Lovi…no?”  
  
The man looked wary. “You are only supposed to check in on The Boss from a distance, Mr. Fernandez. Do I need to remind you of your specific duties?”  
  
His ‘specific duties.’ Antonio had heard that phrase before, although not very often. And usually there was giggling in the background. “I’m supposed to use my own discretion when I think that something’s wrong. And I think something’s wrong now. So where is he?”  
  
“The Boss is taking care of something that does not concern you.”  
  
Antonio had devoted the last decade of his life to keeping Lovi safe, and he’d be damned if he let somebody that wasn’t Lovi tell him that what Lovino did was none of his business. He clenched his left hand into a fist, the only sign that he was beginning to get angry. “I’m going to ask you one more time. Lovino obviously isn’t here, so _where is he_?”  
  
The man looked scared. Probably because he had been assigned to Lovi for a long time now, so he knew that Antonio sort of had a _temper_. It was hard to provoke him enough to see his full temper flare, but when it did… it was like Antonio wasn’t himself anymore. In a bad way.   
  
“The Boss isn’t here. If you are wondering about your orders, then you should go back to your place of residence and call Mr. Vargas for further instruction.”  
  
Antonio’s right hand twitched. Just a little. “I know my job isn’t to think, but right now I really think you need to tell me what’s going on.”  
  
“Or you will do _what_ , Mr. Fernandez?”  
  
“Or I will hit you until you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.” Antonio didn’t do standoffs. When people tried to catch him in them, he forced a way out for himself.  
  
“… Mr. Vargas will not be pleased with this turn of events.”  
  
“Mr. Vargas isn’t your boss; you shouldn’t care what he thinks! This is about Lovi!”  
  
“You will be more respectful when speaking of The Boss! Mr. Vargas may favor you, but you are not a very important person, Mr. Fernandez. You can be replaced.”  
  
Antonio had silly thoughts most of the time. But sometimes serious ones wedged their way in, and right now he couldn’t help but think that it was ridiculous that here they were, two Mafia underlings. And this man was working for Lovi, but still more loyal to Mr. Vargas and here was Antonio, working for Mr. Vargas but willing to do anything for Lovi.  
  
This probably wasn’t very healthy.  
  
But Antonio found that he didn’t care. Instead, he slid the knife out of its place under his belt and proceeded to speed up the conversation. This wasn’t about doing his job. It hadn’t been for a long time. And as he sped away to the nearest airfield in Lovi’s car, which he had borrowed without asking, Antonio didn’t spare a thought for the man with the blue tie who he had knocked out and left in a linen closet.  
  
Even as he boarded one of the small jets, which he had also borrowed without asking, Antonio was far past caring about what Mr. Vargas would think about him losing sight of Lovi. About him running off without asking for permission or orders or ‘specific duties.’  
  
His mind was already in Venice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fill will start getting much more pairing-y now, although that will mostly stay confined to Antonio/Lovino with Feliciano/Ludwig and Erszi/Roderich on the side. You’ll see about the rest of them. I like hinting at loads of different pairings; if you feel so inclined, you can check the index post to see if you catch all the hints. Or if there's something you think is hinted at that I forgot to include up there.


	20. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thieves are betrayed. The remaining four gather together to survey the damages and plot their revenge.

The night was finally still. Francis appreciated the silence and calm for what felt like the first time in his life. With the help of that unsettling robot, he and Alfred had miraculously avoided both capture and death. These were always good things in the mind of Francis Bonnefoy.  
  
The two men had pulled off to the side of a quiet little canal to regroup, once they’d lost their pursuers. As Francis didn’t feel like waiting for his adrenaline rush to pass on his own, he made his way over to Alfred’s boat. On the way out, he noted that in the chaos, Alfred’s curious little whale things must have mistaken his boat for Erzsébet’s; there was quite a bit of gold down in his hold.  
  
 _Strange._  
  
He didn’t see Alfred when he first arrived on the other boat. “Alfred? I hope you don’t mind company at the moment. When do you think we should start heading back in?”  
  
Alfred’s voice, shortly followed by the man himself, came bounding up from below deck. “Oh, in a bit. Tony’s a little shaken up down there. He caught some water where water isn’t supposed to go back when that other boat blew up.” For all that his voice was cheerful and steady, Alfred’s eyes looked old and he kept fidgeting and wringing his hands.  
  
“Alfred? Is something the matter? I am a master at helping people relax, you know that. If you need any assistance, then do not hesitate to ask.” He knew Alfred wouldn’t accept, but that didn’t make the brush off feel any less depressing when it came.  
  
“I’ll be fine, Francis.” Alfred returned below deck, ostensibly to check on his robot, but Francis had the inkling that it was more so Alfred could be by himself for a moment. Or away from him.  
  
He kept up the conversation anyway. “It is a lovely night.”  
  
“Hmm? I guess. Better since all the shooting’s stopped.”  
  
Francis moved over towards the controls and sat in the captain’s seat. The buttons and knobs were the same as in his own boat, which was moored just ahead. “I agree. It’s a shame we won’t have longer to appreciate the city, peacefully.” So what if he was pandering to Alfred’s inner tourist? No one could say that Francis didn’t know how to work his audience.  
  
A dispassionate “Yeah” floated up from the hold. The universe had decided that Francis Bonnefoy couldn’t catch a break tonight, even when he was trying to be genuinely friendly. He cursed it.  
  
“So what do you intend to do with your portion of the takings? I don’t think you’ve ever said.” None of them had ever said, although Francis knew Tryggvi’s reason ( _that man he ran from_ ) and had found out where Erzsébet’s money went ( _charity_ ) on accident.  
  
“Uh. What am I gonna do with the gold? Well, you know. Nothing special. You?”  
  
Sitting all alone on the deck of the boat, it felt like Francis was talking to the canal. “I will finance further ventures with my share. It’s what I always do.”  
  
“I thought you just went crazy buying prostitutes for a couple weeks.” Alfred’s American frankness could be endearing sometimes, but right now it was only making Francis feel pathetic. He didn’t let that carry over into his voice.  
  
However, he couldn’t _quite_ stop the sarcasm from breaking out. “Yes. Yes of course, how could I forget?” _Of course_ he’d almost forgotten that he was supposed to be a bit of a rake. Lately he’d spent most of his time planning or just being with the team. It felt… it was like he was back in boarding school again.  
  
“Aw, you know I didn’t mean anything bad by it.” Alfred’s voice was getting louder. He must be returning to the deck.  
  
Francis didn’t turn his gaze away from the peaceful canal. “I know.”  
  
“Hey Francis?” Strange, it sounded like Alfred was standing directly behind him. Alfred almost never got physically close to any of them; he’d said he was afraid of catching their European-ness.   
  
“Yes?”  
  
“…will you tell everybody I’m sorry?”  
  
“What do you mean?”   
  
And then Francis’s world went black.  
  


* * *

  
They had fully expected it to be Vash at the grand front doors, and had exchanged worried glances when he didn’t just use his set of keys to let himself in. What could he have possibly found out there?   
  
But it wasn’t Vash: it was a tired, wet, bedraggled Francis that squelched his way through the entrance and into the parlor. Alone.   
  
Erzsébet reacted first, and she did so by panicking even as she moved to direct Francis to a seat on the sofa. “Wha—who? Francis!” He gratefully accepted her help, without any sly comments or the hint of suggestion. It was eerie.  
  
Eduard and Tryggvi remained rooted to the floor on the other side of the room, where they had been glaring at each other before Francis had come back alone, looking like he had lost a fight with a river. Which could only mean that Alfred…  
  
Francis laughed without humor. “Alfred sends his condolences.”  
  
“Wait, you mean… not Alfred?!” Eduard couldn’t reconcile the upbeat student that lived in his mind with a traitor. But the more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t reconcile the upbeat student that lived in his mind with the secretive, at times ruthless man Alfred had grown up to be. So this was the way it was. Alfred had betrayed them. Eduard took his own seat next to Francis, not minding the growing puddle. Why was this affecting him so much?  
  
“What happened to you?”  
  
Erzsébet hissed out a warning from the doorway as she returned from fetching an armful of towels. “ _Tryggvi._ ”

“It’s fine. And a completely understandable question.” There was that peculiar laugh again. “I mean, which of you expected it, really? That Alfred would take everything and run.”  
  
None of them had. Not even Tryggvi and Eduard, who were naturally suspicious of everyone. And now Erzsébet paced back and forth while Tryggvi knelt in front of Francis, cleaning up the water on the floor, and Eduard sat next to him and didn’t know what to think.  
  
“Just tell us.”  
  
“Eduard?”  
  
He took off his glasses, but he didn’t stop staring at the ceiling from his place on the couch. “Tell us your story and we’ll tell you each of ours. We can figure it out from there.”  
  
It wasn’t actually a long tale to tell. Alfred had surprised him and injected him with _something_. Francis had woken later, though not much later if the clock on the wall was anything to go by, to darkness and ropes. The darkness had turned out to be the bottom of a nearby rowboat and the ropes had turned out to be expertly knotted. But Alfred hadn’t known that Francis had gotten into bondage when he’d been at university, and despite accidentally capsizing, he’d been able to kick his way back to a dock and wriggle free.  
  
After that he’d only had to stumble home. He’d tried to pick deserted routes, but there were still passerby, and they still managed to look at him like he was some sort of insulting drunken tourist. Francis might have preferred that.  
  
Tryggvi had stopped mopping sometime around “…and then I fell into the canal,” but instead of morphing into apathy from the much expected hilarity-at-Francis’s-embarrassment-smirk, his face had appeared sympathetic. Francis savored it.  
  
But Tryggvi didn’t pose his next question to Francis. Instead he turned to Eduard. “What are we going to do now?”  
  
Eduard didn’t make eye contact. “How should I know?”

“You should know because you’re the leader! You’re the one who plans everything and you’re the one who brought us all together in the first place!” When Erzsébet was angry she was angry. When she was passionate she had nothing else.  
  
“What am I supposed to do? It’s not that easy: we’ve lost everything and we’ve angered a major mafia family in the process. This isn’t something I can magically fix by thinking about it for a few seconds!”  
  
“What did you just say?” Tryggvi was a cautious person by experience.  
  
“I said I’m not a miracle—”  
  
“No. The other part. About the mafia.”

“…it’s very likely that the Russo crime family may decide that we have insulted their honor and hunt us down.”  
  
“But Feliciano’s an orphan, he said so himself!”  
  
Eduard raised an eyebrow at that, but didn’t bother asking Erzsébet what her outburst was about. This wasn’t the time for in-fighting, he realized that now. “Be that as it may, he is related to Romolo Vargas, and that means the Russo family.”  
  
“Powerful men tend to have many bastards.” Francis looked at him through sopping wet bangs. “Perhaps those few bodyguards were the only connection Veneziano had to the family.”  
  
“But we don’t _know_ that.”  
  
“Shit.” The men turned. Erzsébet rarely cursed; she always said it was unladylike. “We’re screwed, aren’t we?”  
  
“Not necessarily.”  
  
“Francis?”

“I have an idea. I know someone who might be able to get us some help, if she feels like it.”  
  
Erzsébet stopped pacing. “A contact?”  
  
Eduard had already fished a little black cellphone out of his pocket. It wasn’t one of the iTalks. “It’s my work phone, so I know it’s secure. Use it.”  
  
Tryggvi continued to sit on the floor amidst this new flurry of activity. He didn’t have anything to contribute to it, at the moment, and he didn’t want to get in the way. But still, how could a phone call help them now, if they were really in as much trouble as Eduard had alluded to?  
  
When Francis began speaking, everyone else held their breaths. When he laughed and began engaging in pleasantries, Erzsébet motioned to him to hurry the hell up, but Eduard stopped her. These sorts of dealings took a certain level of perfunctory politeness. When Francis finally hung up, he was pounced on.  
  
Figuratively.  
  
“An informant? What the hell are we supposed to do with one more crook!?” As Erzsébet’s rant took a turn into rapid, scathing Hungarian, Eduard had an idea.  
  
“That’s perfect. Well, as perfect as anything can be, right now.”  
  
“How?”  
  
Eduard took a deep breath, and told the truth. “I can’t go back to Braginski without any funds. I don’t know about the rest of you. But if we can find… if we can get to Alfred and the gold, then I promise you that Braginski will protect all of you from any threat of the mafia.”  
  
It was a choice between one devil and another. Tryggvi hated these kinds of choices, much like he hated all organized crime ever. _Ever_. Could a person retire from being extorted? “What if I don’t want to have anything to do with either of them?”

“Take my route anyway. Braginski will forget about you, I promise, and eventually the Russo family will too, if you keep your head down. It’s not an ideal solution, and it’ll just force more conflict between two international crime syndicates that don’t like each other anyway, but… I don’t know what else to do.”  
  
Erzsébet had stopped cursing a little earlier. “It’s unfair of us to ask you to always have the solution. Let’s wait until we can meet this informant Francis’s friend knows.” She laughed, but it wasn’t like Francis’s self-deprecating huff. This was genuine. “I guess they weren’t lying when they said crime doesn’t pay!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To me, it seemed obvious to have Alfred be the traitor. If you don’t see why quite yet then you will in part 23.


	21. Feliciano and Ludwig’s Fucking Excellent Mafia Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ludwig wakes up to strangers and a Vargas brother with the mouth of a sailor.

_Step. Step. Step.  
  
_ Ludwig slept on.  
  
 _Step._  
  
Ludwig slept, and snored.  
  
 _Mutter._  
  
Ludwig slept, and snored, and drooled a tiny little bit on one of Feliciano’s pillows.  
  
 **CRASH**  
  
Ludwig woke up. It was hard not to, when one of the bureaus blocking the door had fallen over and spilled a collection of picture frames all over the floor. And of course, there was still the matter of some unidentified person ( _or persons_ ) banging the door down. Ludwig was used to being very confused sometimes, but usually only when Gilbert or Feliciano were nearby, and it appeared that Ludwig was alone. If the people on the other side of the door didn’t count. And that was confusing.  
  
He tried to sit up, which was a rather unsuccessful venture, because he had been lying on his front on the corner of the bed anyway. So instead of sitting up, Ludwig ended up falling down. But he recovered much more quickly than he could have, in retrospect.  
  
Ludwig had the very sharp suspicion that he had been drinking before he had passed out.  
  
After two more loud bangs, the double doors to the room he was in ( _had he ever been in here before? Where was here? Why were there pictures of him on the walls? Why were there pictures of Feliciano on the walls? Why were there pictures of an angry Felicia— No. Wait. Why were there pictures of Feliciano’s brother on the walls?_ ) fell apart. “Hey, you were right! There’s somebody in here! Doesn’t look very threatening.”  
  
Two men in slick black suits stepped over the mess in the doorway and walked over to Ludwig. One of them waved a handgun in Ludwig’s direction. “You’ve got two seconds.”  
  
Ludwig nodded, but not really in response. “That’s it! It is Feliciano’s room.”  
  
The man with the gun lost some of the authority from his stance. “Uh… what?”

“It makes sense. There are pictures of me, and him and that other one. So it must be his room. Yes. I have never been in here before. Have you?” Ludwig looked genuinely curious. And still quite a bit drunk.  
  
The man with the gun looked genuinely flabbergasted. “Look, just tell me where the guy who lives here is. Either way you’re coming with us, but if you’re useful then maybe you can come along without any extra holes.”  
  
“Where is Feliciano?”  
  
The man who probably also had a gun but didn’t have it out at the moment put his hand on his partner’s shoulder. “Hey, I don’t think this one’s going to be useful. And he’s seen us. Maybe just pop him full of a couple and then we can join the Boss downstairs.”  
  
“Yeah, sure. That makes sense.” He turned back to where Ludwig was. Had been.  
  
Sometime during the short exchange, Ludwig’s brain had decided that not only did these two characters not know where Feliciano was, they were trespassers and should be dealt with accordingly. Ludwig had stood up, ( _though not quite to his full height, because he was still wobbling a little, which gave credence to the theory that he had been drinking_ ) and had grabbed the gun out of the first man’s hands.  
  
The man who had formerly been in possession of a handgun blinked and assessed his situation. He no longer had a weapon, the man he had just told he was going to shoot was drunk and in possession of the weapon he had been flaunting, and his partner wasn’t doing a damn thing about it.   
  
“…a little help here?”

“Sorry man. I just have a knife on me.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
And that was as far as the conversation got before the door to the bathroom burst open.  
  
That was to say, the door to the bathroom opened in a loud, attention-getting fashion, with enough force to leave a dent in the opposite wall of the bedroom. And framed by the open doorway was an angry Felicia— No. Wait. Ludwig knew this one by now. Feliciano never adopted expressions like that. But how had Lovino gotten into the bathroom?  
  
“V—I mean… You! What the fuck are you trying to do in this house? Who do you think you are?” His voice started out wavering, but an angry Vargas took to yelling like a happy Vargas took to pasta, and this was certainly an angry Vargas.  
  
“Shit it’s the other one!” The man who used to have a gun was knocked upside the head by the man who only carried a knife.

“Stupid, be quiet!”  
  
Lovino looked on. “You stupid fucking stupid moronic idiots have half a second before I blow your brains out, so help me God. Fuck.”  
  
Hm. The ratio of curses to every other part of speech was a tiny bit high, but what really confused Ludwig was how Lovino and he were in the same room and none of those curses were directed at him. Were they? How much _had_ he been drinking?  
  
The man with the knife didn’t notice anything amiss. “What my associate here was trying to say was that we are very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Lovino Vargas. We are here in the home of your brother—”  
  
“In his _bedroom_ , v—fuck.”  
  
“Uh, yes. In his bedroom, because our boss, the most respected Mr. Bianchi, cares very much about his wellbeing and decided to pay him a visit tonight.”  
  
“So late?” As an afterthought he added a soft ‘fuck,’ but the man with the knife didn’t notice. He’d already launched into what sounded like a memorized speech.  
  
“Yes. The honorable Mr. Bianchi cares very much about all his neighbors, and decided to pay a visit to your brother, the well-known artist Mr. Feliciano Vargas, this evening. However, once we arrived we found the house in disarray and no Mr. Feliciano Vargas at all. Therefore I am sure it would be in both of our best interests, Mr. Lovino Vargas, if you were to accompany us downstairs and join forces with Mr. Bianchi in the search for your brother. We _strongly_ suggest it. Please don’t make this difficult.”  
  
Lovino looked furious. Ludwig couldn’t blame him; these strangers were being very rude. And where was Feliciano?  
  
“And what the fuck are you two fucks going to fucking do about it if I fucking don’t go the fucking fuck with you? Fuck.”  
  
“Normally my associate would threaten you with his gun, but your—him, he took it. But I have a knife.” It almost sounded like a question. These two really didn’t know what they were doing, which annoyed Ludwig. Why bother joining an organization if you weren’t going to take the time to learn how to properly do your job?  
  
He would have pondered more on the subject, but Lovino was looking at him funny. And not the normal ‘I’m trying to kill you with my eyes, shitface’ look that Lovino often gave him. It was like Lovino was trying to signal him…and Ludwig didn’t understand until Lovino altered his expression a tiny bit and pleaded with his eyes. Oh. _Oh._  
  
So it really _was_ just an angry Feliciano. Oh.   
  
Ludwig preferred to settle conflicts with words. All the best sources ( _daytime television and self-help books_ ) said that proper communication and the willingness to compromise could settle any argument. But these gangsters were threatening Ludwig, and more importantly _Feliciano_ with physical harm. And sober or not ( _not_ ) Ludwig really wasn’t okay with that.  
  
Nothing Ludwig had learned in ‘Condensed-Matter Physics’ or ‘Leading and Managing High-Performance Organizations’ had prepared him for a situation like this. However, the demanding life he had started for himself in Munich had left him perfectly equipped, both mentally and physically. Because practicing his art had given Ludwig some serious muscles. And barhopping with his brother had taught him the invaluable skill of being able to knock an aggressor unconscious ( _but not for too long, Gilbert really didn’t need any more jail time on his record_ ) in just one blow.  
  
Unfortunately, physics caught up with Ludwig after he finished dispensing his own form of justice. He fell over. Feliciano ran over to catch him, but thought the better of it, because Ludwig was a much bigger man than he was. Ludwig didn’t mind. He was too busy being glad that Feliciano was there and okay.  
  
“Ve! Are you alright, Ludwig? Oh, I heard them come in, ve, and I didn’t know what to do and I was so worried and I knew you were still out here and and and, ve I’m glad you weren’t hurt!” And now they were both on the floor, because Feliciano had thrown himself on top of Ludwig. They really should be getting up; the floor was a mess, and glass from the upset picture frames had spread out everywhere.  
  
“Feliciano.”

“Ve, yes?”

“…you know about your verbal tic?”  
  
“Ve?”

“Never mind. But—what was _that_?”

At the question Feliciano began to look… bashful? “Well, ve, you see the thing is… ve… I was trying to be my brother!”  
  
Why in the world would anyone want to be… “Huh?”  
  
“My brother said it was okay if I thought I was in bad trouble, ve. Because you know about the mafia thing,” Ludwig nodded. He might not like it, he knew Feliciano didn’t, but he knew. “Ve… Lovino’s kind of important. To some of them. But I don’t do any of that stuff. So I’m not.”  
  
Ludwig didn’t know where this was supposed to be going. “I don’t follow.”  
  
The two were interrupted by low voices rising up from downstairs. The thugs hadn’t been lying; there were more of them down there. Feliciano took a deep breath and took charge. “Ludwig! Help me drag these two into the bathroom! And then barricade the door with something heavy.”  
  
He did, but on the condition that “Feliciano. Please explain what’s going on.”  
  
“Ve, we don’t have time for that now, Ludwig, but I promise we’ll get through this.” Feliciano’s eyes were red, and Ludwig was fairly sure it was not because he was hung-over. “I-I’ll get us through this, ve!”   
  
After Ludwig was finished, Feliciano approached him with a midnight blue silk tie. “Can you put this on, ve? It’ll be useful for you. And oh. Please don’t talk much. Even when you’re spoken to, ve.”  
  
And Ludwig was now absolutely sure he had been drinking, because it sounded like the next thing Feliciano said as they walked into the dark hallway was “but that won’t be difficult for you because you’re the sexy ‘strong and silent’ type anyway, ve!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun Dun Duuuunnnnn. Oh no! Feliciano and Ludwig are caught in the clutches of a rival gang! Will Feliciano ever be able to convince anyone that he is Lovino by saying ‘fuck’ every other word? Will Ludwig ever be sober again? Tune in ~~to part 26~~ next time to find out!


	22. The Unexpected Wears Tight Pants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovino meets up with the team that dared to rob Feliciano. Afterwards, he makes a visit to Feliciano's house to see how his little brother is holding up... only to find the mansion empty.

They didn’t know his name or what he looked like. They didn’t know if he could speak any language besides Italian ( _if he didn’t, then they would only be able to communicate with him through Erzsébet. Which could become tiring, or even dangerous if she lost her temper_ ). And Francis’s contact had arranged for them to somehow meet him in one of the most crowded squares in Venice, the Piazza San Marco.  
  
This was ridiculous.  
  
“Please explain to me why your friend couldn’t give us any more specifics than ‘he’s a bratty-looking upstart’?” Erzsébet pretended to pour over a visitor’s map. Hopefully to the rest of the crowd they just looked like a group of tired tourists lost in a new city. Nothing surprising there.  
  
“Lotte has her ways, my dear. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t give us any information about _him_ , but gave him a full dossier on each of _us_ just so a situation like this could occur.”  
  
“A situation like what?” Tryggvi wished, from his place on the ground, that they could have gotten breakfast before coming here. What sorts of ideas would they have on an empty stomach?   
  
“You, my sweet, should be familiar with it most of all! The _hunt_.”  
  
Eduard flipped through another page of a guidebook he had gotten from somewhere. Maybe he’d already had it. And who knew that Venice had so few nightclubs? “You think he’s already here then, watching us?”  
  
Francis shrugged. “It would be Lotte’s style.”  
  
Just then, a voice in sharp, heavily accented English pointed out from behind Erzsébet’s shoulder that “You people talk too much.”  
  
Erzsébet didn’t flinch. Everyone else did: Eduard and Tryggvi in pure surprise and Francis in a mixture of surprise and disappointment. Had he angered Lotte the last time he had visited her quite so much that she would send someone like this?  
  
Lotte hadn’t been exaggerating. Standing in front of the group of thieves was the very picture of an upstart. The boy couldn’t be older than twenty… no, he looked much closer to eighteen. If he was lucky. Francis hated working with teenagers. It always made him feel like a pedophile, and he wasn’t. Not even close. Hopefully he was wrong, this wasn’t their informant and they were just standing in the child’s ‘way’. “Excuse me, did you need any assistance?”  
  
A sullen “No.”

“Then I will wish you good morning, and goodbye.”  
  
The kid didn’t move. “I heard _you_ were the ones who needed help. An _annoying_ little birdie told me.”  
  
How wonderful. Lotte had sent him a kid. She could be such a… “Run along and tell Lotte that we didn’t ask to babysit for her. Shoo.” Eduard, Tryggvi and Erzsébet were giving Francis strange looks now. They had been expecting an informant and all they had gotten was Francis losing his cool because of some kid. They didn’t have time for this. He supposed he should have told them earlier that Lotte always liked a good joke.  
  
“Look, I was promised a job and if you stop wasting time I’ll get it done. Do _you_ want to be the one to tell Lotte that you fucking called in a favor for nothing?” The boy had a point.   
  
“No. You’re going to do that, after you scamper away. This is no place for children.” Great. He was arguing with a teenager.  
  
The boy didn’t even look angry; just fashionably annoyed. “I don’t _have_ to be here.”  
  
“And if you leave, you won’t be.”  
  
Tryggvi watched the exchange as though it were a tennis match, moving his head back and forth with each passing remark. While entertaining, it was nothing to miss breakfast over. And they only had so much time to find Alfred. “Stop bickering. Let’s get this over with.”  
  
“I agree,” Eduard snapped his travel guide shut with purpose, “and I motion that we take this conversation elsewhere, now that we’ve all met. We can introduce ourselves as we go, and then you can start proving to us just how capable you are. We’ll work out payment plans and other schemes from there.”  
  
The informant shifted from one foot to the other. “So I’m in?”  
  
“Teenagers in this line of work are hardly responsible—”  
  
While Tryggvi hated the little ironies that popped up through his life, Eduard found them darkly amusing. “You can never tell from a first glance what anyone is capable of. Not even a child.”  
  
As the group ( _now plus one_ ) moved to relocate itself to somewhere more appropriate for plots and plans, Erzsébet sidled up to the informant. The kid. “You’re in if you prove you can be worth our while.” The boy nodded, which caused his trendy sunglasses to shake a little on his face. Erzsébet couldn’t help but feel a rush of fondness for him; she knew what it was like, trying ( _and failing_ ) to fit in. Trying to find your place in the world through bright clothes and a disaffected attitude. Teenage cries for attention, she knew them very well.  
  
“I like your scarf.” It was bright yellow, checkered, and arranged _just so_ around his neck. She remembered back when _she_ used to pay that much attention to her appearance. The years felt like ages.  
  
His reply was an apathetic “thanks.” Oh that was so cute! He was trying to be cool with her!  
  
“I’m Erzsébet.”  
  
“Romano.” He held out his hand to her and his smile reached all the way from his eyes to hers. Erzsébet felt her cheeks flush. Well, well, they had a little charmer on their hands. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Romano didn’t look anything like Alf— like a traitor. She could feel motherly affection for this boy, it was in her sweet nature to do so, and they would do their jobs and that would be that. As shallow an interaction as any business relationship. Good.  
  
“Tell me, man of Rome, do you have a boyfriend?”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
The first thing he lost was the stupid scarf. Really, who wore those things?   
  
As much as he would have liked to exchange the rest of his outfit for something that wasn’t quite so cumbersome ( _after years of tailored suits, the cheap fabrics and restricting tightness of what he wore now only served to intensify his already bad mood_ ), Lovino wasn’t a fan of stripping in the street.  
  
He could stand five more minutes of juvenile clothing, and luckily that was about how far away he was from his brother’s house. Otherwise the stripping would begin to look a little _too_ appealing.  
  
Lovino whistled as he walked. The morning had been a success, more or less. The bastards had accepted him as one of their own and had already given him some menial chore to do. Something about getting them more boats and supplies from a friend of Francis’s family.   
  
Francis. The rich bastard had spent the entire morning calling Lovino ‘kid’ and ordering him around. When he wasn’t busy assaulting the small one named ‘Tryggvi’. Lovino had the feeling that if he’d looked any older, he would have been on the receiving end of Francis’s attentions too.  
  
He shuddered.  
  
It was funny that the four morons had each called him a kid at least once, some more than others. Because if Lotte’s information was right, then Lovino was older than half of them. He’d known his disguise would work, but he’d never expected it to work to quite such a degree. The last time he’d used it, the bartender hadn’t batted an eyelid at the fake ID that said Lovino ( _under a different name, of course_ ) was 22. Was he just starting to look younger and younger?  
  
He quelled the voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his grandfather ( _“Some call it the Vargas Curse… but you should treat it as an opportunity, Lovi! Or maybe it’s just your natural immaturity bleeding out…_ ). Stupid old man.  
  
Regardless of the reason, the no-good thieves had included him in their newest plans, and with any luck he’d have Feliciano’s gold back before Monday. His brother had better grovel, for all the work Lovino was doing for him. Those bastards had actually tried to make him work through his siesta time! What the fuck were they on, did they really expect him to get any information when all the useful sources were at home? Work-freaks.  
  
At least none of them were German.  
  
That was right, aside from punishing his own men, Lovino would have the pleasure of making sure that stupid sculptor didn’t get within a 20 km radius of his little brother for the rest of his pathetic German life. Which might be considerably shorter than it could have been. This incident had proved ( _in Lovino’s mind_ ) that the weirdo was no good for Feliciano.  
  
And then things could go back to normal.  
  
He turned the final corner and hoped none of his muffins would try to shoot the ‘trespasser’. They were certain to be on high alert after their monumental screw up the night before, and with good reason: once he found out which links in the security chain had endangered Feliciano, he would have to have those links erased.  
  
And by ‘erased,’ he meant he would take them out back and shoot them in the head himself. Lovino didn’t like violence and found grandiose gestures obnoxious. But damn it all, family was important to him, and his muffins weren’t family. Not quite. Not like Feliciano was.  
  
Every single muffin knew the price of failing The Boss.  
  
He was only a house away now. He really hoped they wouldn’t be feeling especially trigger happy… It wasn’t like they’d be able to recognize him. Besides the fact that several of them only had the thinking power of their respective pastry, Lovino was confident in his disguise ( _even without the scarf_ ).   
  
As a child, Lovino had often been overlooked, in favor of his brother or of the other children of the Russo family. Everyone else had somehow been more adorable, cuter, smarter, cleverer. Better. But when it came time for him to start working for the family, Lovino had displayed a curious talent that, along with his natural tenacity, had helped him get to where he was today. While most of the rest of those cleverer, cuter kids now kissed up to him with every chance they got.  
  
Served them right.  
  
That talent had been for creating disguises. Lovino hadn’t been blind; he’d been bitter, growing up ( _maybe he still was, a little_ ). He’d known that he didn’t get the smiles and the praise, and not because he was invisible, but just because he wasn’t outstanding. He was noticed for his failures. His mistakes. But the rest of the time, he was brushed off like any of the other many children of the family. It was because he didn’t shine. Not like Feliciano ( _alright fine. He was bitter_ ).   
  
But when they’d needed to be someone else for an hour, the smarter kids had been awkward in all the wrong ways and the cuter kids had been seen through before they could even start talking. All Lovino had had to do was take his natural tendency to fade into the background and exploit it.   
  
And he’d gotten good at it ( _it was how he’d learned so much about Antonio… Lovino would have pegged his stalker as a clingy drunk, since he was a stalker and all, but Antonio had turned out to be very talkative, instead_ ).  
  
It wasn’t an ability he would boast about, because who really boasted about being unremarkable, but it beat having to wait hours and hours and spend exorbitant amounts of cash just to let some make-up artist fuss over him before pronouncing him a different person. His way was cheaper. And, dammit, it was a skill.  
  
Lovino took off his sunglasses as he stepped through his brother’s front gate and slowly walked up the small path to the doors. The doors that were neither closed, nor locked, nor attached in any way to the rest of the house. He waited for someone to come out and start explaining. For Feliciano to throw himself at “Veeee, big brother!!”  
  
But nothing happened.  
  
So Lovino took the handgun from the side bag in which he had steadily been stowing the accessories that had marked him as a normal, frivolous teen, and cautiously stepped through the open doorway.  
  
No one was in the hall.  
  
No one was in the parlor.  
  
No one was in Feliciano’s room, although there were signs of a struggle. The broken glass underfoot was what started to worry Lovino, because he knew how important those pictures were to his little brother. He’d been able to justify the stillness of the house as he walked through it, because if Feliciano had been paying attention to any of his lectures, the idiot would have known to hide as soon as trouble presented itself.  
  
If running wasn’t an option.  
  
The disheveled room worried Lovino, precisely because it was the first place Feliciano would think to hide. Probably under the bed, if he had the chance. Lovino kept searching.

And then he found the blood.

If the broken picture frames had worried him, the broken, bloody tiles of the master bathroom absolutely terrified him.  
  
\- - - - -  
  


 _ _Ring._  
  
Ring._  
  
The number was unlisted. She wasn’t expecting anyone… “Hello? Who’s calling?”  
  
“Remember the part where we both have brothers?”  
  
He didn’t sound like himself. “Lovino? What? What are you talking about?”  
  
“I’m going to make you a promise, Lotte.”  
  
“…Lovino? Unless you’re about to promise me the moon and the stars I don’t see what the fuss is about. Are you alright?”  
  
“As long as _I_ still have a brother, _you_ still have a brother.”  
  
Her blood froze in her veins. What was going on? “Don’t you dare threaten my brother, Vargas. Whatever the hell you think I did, just tell me and I’ll clear it up, although I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re playing a very dangerous bluff with me.”  
  
He typed something into the other phone in his hand and waited. And then…“He’s in his apartment right now. Right in front of a window, too. Sitting duck.”  
  


“That doesn’t prove anything.”  
  
He waited for the next message. “He’s not smoking, for once in his life. He’s reading a book… _The Hiding Place_? Ironic choice.”  
  
She finally believed him, between the deadly certainty in his voice and her brother’s favorite book. “…what is this about?”  
  
His voice was quiet. “You said Feliciano was fine.”  
  
“He was supposed to be! Francis said they’d robbed him and screwed up. He probably wasn’t even home when they were there.”  
  
“He called me. He said he was scared.”  
  
Exasperated. “…what do you want me to do about that?”  
  
“His room is torn apart, there’s blood on the walls and no one’s alive in his house. **Tell me how that equals ‘he’s alright’?!** ”  
  
 _Oh no…_ “Lovino, I—”  
  
“Shut up. I don’t care about your excuses. You _will_ find out _everything_ I want to know, and you will tell it to me. Because if you don’t, or if you don’t find out every _single_ detail of where Feliciano is, or if you take a _millisecond_ too long, you’ll be an only child.”  
  
He was serious. “I-I can look into it.”  
  
“What was that?”  
  
“…tell me what you want to know and give me an hour.”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Lovino shut Apple Cinnamon’s phone with a loud snap, and let it fall to the ground. How the _fuck_ could this have happened? He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything at this point. After getting over his fear of Feliciano’s bathroom ( _after finding no bodies there_ ), after checking through each of the rooms of the main house, Lovino had descended into the connecting hallway he’d made Feliciano install to protect his earnings.  
  
Because fuck if anyone could trust in Italian banks.  
  
The first thing he’d seen when he’d gotten out of the elevator was Apple Cinnamon lying in a pool of blood. Lovino had wanted to kill something at that point. He’d distantly realized that that was why the man hadn’t been returning his calls.  
  
Sure enough, he’d checked Apple Cinnamon’s pockets and found his muffin’s phone, with 33 missed calls. 27 were from Lovino.  
  
He’d gone upstairs at that point, and outside; there was no need to check the storage building, he knew what he would find there. Nothing.  
  
Outside, he had sat down on the stoop, put his head in his hands and screamed. Two voices had shouted back, telling him to shut up. He wanted to go up to those voices and ask them where they had been when his brother was kidnapped or killed or both. Where they had been when his man was being shot, three times in the back.  
  
But that would accomplish nothing.  
  
Instead he’d made a few phone calls. To a general Russo lackey in Amsterdam. General lackeys didn’t have the balls to ask ‘why?’ when someone like a Vargas told them to set up shop on a rooftop and stare through a scope for an indefinite period of time. Then he’d picked up Apple Cinnamon’s phone.  
  
He’d noticed the screen was cracked. Probably from when he’d fallen.  
  
He’d called Lotte.  
  
Before, Lovino had been angry. Now? Now this was war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lame reasoning for Lovino's disguise is that people often only see what they expect. And all Vargas men are blessed with a young face, which Grandpa exploits to the fullest. Also: Hell if I know anything about fashion. If the details I put are outdated, just try to picture him as a trendy kid, the kind that’s a dime a dozen and when you lump too many of them together it’s like a herd of zebras. Double also: Lotte’s brother doesn’t have to be a nation, I suppose. But I was thinking the Netherlands.


	23. Respect the Vest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Gilbert work together with the Italian police ( _read: everyone tries to get in everyone else's way_ ). While searching for a restroom, Gilbert comes across an old acquaintance.

Cackling echoed down the hallway. That was the only warning the officers had before the door to the meeting room slammed open, the perpetrator standing with his hands on his hips in the entryway.  
  
“What have you got for me, minions?”  
  
They stared at him. It was probably because he had spoken in quick Bavarian ( _he had learned it for the express purpose of using it to piss off his northern father_ ). It might have also been because albinos in bulletproof vests weren’t an everyday occurrence in the Venice police headquarters. Or maybe it was just because Gilbert was a little weird.  
  
“Well? Can’t you read the vest? I’m INTERPOL, bitches. Special ops. That means you’ve gotta do what I say!”  
  
The officers largely ignored the man raving in the doorway and whispered amongst themselves. “What is he saying?” “I have no idea…” “Is that made of tape?”  
  
It _was_ made of tape, ‘it’ being the word INTERPOL proudly emblazoned across Gilbert’s chest in shining silver. He’d managed to find reflective tape in a drawer somewhere, when he’d picked his way into the back entrance of the facility. It wasn’t duct tape, but it would do. Gilbert had been trying to get the Commissioner to ask for a uniform change from the even higher ups for months already; he’d already been asked six times if he was a police officer and enough was enough.  
  
Gilbert Beilschmidt was a secret freaking _agent_. While awesome in their own right, cops just couldn’t touch that.  
  
Commissioner Kirkland had never been able to impress it upon Gilbert that big flashy statements basically equaled ‘shoot me now’ in the world of international espionage. And Commissioner Kirkland was all about stealth. But he was also all about making life difficult for Sub-Agent Kirkland, so when Sub-Agent Kirkland filed a formal complaint against Special Agent Beilschmidt’s “bloody ridiculous, unsuitable attire” the Commissioner stopped sending angry texts to Gilbert’s phone ( _tak off ur vest n00b, u look liek mi bro. but dumr. ur f4c3_ ). In fact, Sub-Agent Kirkland’s complaint was the sole reason why Gilbert was still allowed to wear his vest when he wasn’t undercover. And make new ones for whenever he travelled. It was his spy version of casual Fridays _and_ souvenir t-shirts.   
  
The vest was more than a fashion statement, though. The vest got things done. Especially when local purveyors of swift justice thought Gilbert was one of the normal boring ‘international assistance’ types that often got sent around when people called INTERPOL. Sometimes the boring agents wore vests. But not like Gilbert’s.  
  
His ( _kickass_ ) vest was bulletproof. That implied that he got _shot_ at. What now, bureaucrats?  
  
Finally, a man with an armload of files and a cup of coffee that probably needed to be ten times stronger to get him through the ordeal he was about to face approached the meeting room, and Gilbert, from the other end of the hallway.  
  
“Hello sir. Are you one of the operatives INTERPOL sent here to help us monitor the activities of that alleged international crime ring?”  
  
“That’s one way to put it. I don’t know why you wouldn’t just call them homegrown bad guys. ‘Cause that’s what they are.”  
  
The man raised his left eyebrow. “I was under the impression that none of the members of this supposedly dangerous team were Italian citizens ( _the ‘otherwise we wouldn’t tolerate your help’ was very clearly implied_ ). In fact, the folder your superior sent ahead indicates that one of the members belongs to the Russian syndicate headed by the infamous Ivan Braginski.”  
  
Gilbert finally switched to Italian. “What? No. I’m way too amazing to be stuck with some dead-end case like that. I’m here about the mafia art-smuggling ring that’s been shuffling stuff into Switzerland. Duh.”  
  
INTERPOL was all about saving priceless works of history from being disrespected or defaced by lame-ass criminals. And the man who made sure that the lawless masses didn’t even _think_ about stealing masterpieces? Yeah. That man was Gilbert Beilschmidt.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Arthur almost turned and walked straight out of the room once he saw the only other person in it. First he’d had to take a red-eye out of Moscow ( _God, even the thought of Moscow still made him shiver_ ). Then he’d had to suffer through his luggage being lost and “the agent we were expecting is already here” at the front desk.  
  
He should have known it would be Beilschmidt. Peter knew he couldn’t stand Beilschmidt’s stupid attitude or his stupid vest. Screw being fluent in Italian, Arthur knew the only reason Gilbert was lounging around in the break room of the Venice police HQ was because Peter was a spiteful little bugger.  
  
“Beilschmidt.”  
  
He looked up from his plate full of complementary baked goods. “Angry McKirkland! What’re _you_ doing here? I thought you guys were busy freezing your balls off up in vodka land.”  
  
Beilschmidt’s lack of professionalism annoyed Arthur; but his crudeness grated against the very fiber of Arthur’s refined soul. “Fuck off you bloody git-faced wanker, or I’ll rip your arse in twain. Mention Russia again and I’ll mail the entire department those pictures of you from the Christmas party.”  
  
The threat wasn’t particularly threatening. Not when Gilbert pulled out the big guns. “What, the pictures of me making out with all the secretaries? Go ahead. _I’ll_ just put the pictures of _you_ on the internet. The ones from **two years ago**.”  
  
Drat it all if Arthur hadn’t finally forgotten about those pictures. The cold had made him forget about a lot of things. “Stop being so childish, Beilschmidt. You haven’t even explained why you’re here at all yet.”  
  
“Got a call from the boss. Some crime family down here’s expanded their horizons to Switzerland and yours truly knows Italian _and_ German, naturally, so he was the perfect choice to pick. That and he’s so kickass. And dashing. And daring. And ridiculously good-looking. And—”  
  
Arthur resisted the urge to slug his fellow operative in the face. “Cut it with the third person, you twat. That’s fine. Peter gave you a manageable job. I don’t even care anymore. Just tell me where my partner is.”  
  
Gilbert pointed back at the door. “They’re off looking at the bits of some blown up boat or something. Not my case, not my problem.”   
  
Why was Arthur always stuck with people who were purposefully difficult? What sick enjoyment could they possibly get out of being such… such… “You know that’s not what I meant. I said partner. Where’s Alfred gotten to?”  
  
It was almost like Arthur was pleading. Gilbert loved having the upper hand. “Nuh uh. I’m not telling if you don’t play nice. Call me ‘Special Agent Beilschmidt’ and say please, McKirkland. You’re just a Sub-Agent. You have to do what I tell you to.”  
  
“Our jobs are essentially the same, Beilschmidt, except mine are given to me _without_ the expectation that I’ll screw them up.”  
  
Okay fine. Maybe Arthur and he generally worked on the same projects, and if not that then similar projects. But still, “Not on paper they aren’t.” Gilbert was a real agent. And not _just_ an agent, Gilbert was a _special_ agent. “And I don’t screw things up. Unless by ‘things’ you mean hot chicks and by ‘up’ you mean—”  
  
The urge to use violence to solve his problems became too great for even a man of Arthur Kirkland’s caliber to overcome.  
  
Twenty minutes later, Gilbert had gotten some ice for his face and Arthur had gotten nothing for his hand, because he damn well wasn’t going anywhere _near_ frozen water again for the rest of his life. The local police officers hadn’t asked much from the foreigners as they’d handed them a first aid kit; mostly because the officers didn’t want to have to deal with them. It was a wise decision.  
  
“Did you really have to hit me?”   
  
“Did you really have to _neglect_ to tell me that my partner is MIA?”  
  
The two INTERPOL agents looked at each other.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Vash wasn’t having a good day.  
  
Days that he didn’t start knowing _exactly_ where Master Francis was, and who he was with, generally passed from not very good, to bad, to worse. This was one of those days. Throw in Italian law enforcement and their stupid rules about threatening people in bars for the location of your employer’s son and carrying around loaded and unconcealed armor-piercing rifles… and Vash’s day was completely shot to hell.  
  
They told him he could cool his feet in a jail cell for the day and the following night. Or rather, for an indeterminate amount of time while they ran around the city concerning themselves with things more important than a gun-waving maniac. Vash had no illusions about his own importance. But jail was not the Zwingli way, and being _forgotten about_ in an interrogation room without any firearms was unthinkable.  
  
And yet that was the exact situation Vash Zwingli found himself in.  
  
And just as he began to think that nothing could get worse, Gilbert Beilschmidt walked in through the door. And recognized him.

“Huh, this isn’t the bathroom… hey. Hey! You’re that one guy!” Right. Vash had forgotten that Gilbert Beilschmidt, along with being a bad influence, wasn’t the most intelligent of human beings. But just in case, he didn’t speak and he turned away from the albino who had already started unzipping his pants. _Really._ “Hey, don’t try that shit with me. I remember you! Wow… you really haven’t aged at all. Francis’s babysitter, right? It’s me! His most awesome friend, Gilbert! What’d you do to land in here?” Gilbert zipped up his pants, thankfully, before plopping himself down in the chair across from Vash.  
  
“I have nothing to say.” Not to a hooligan like Gilbert. How had he managed to get into law enforcement, or if his stupid vest was actually true, INTERPOL? Maybe the man had just stolen the vest after he had broken out of his own cell. That made more sense.  
  
“Suuuuure you don’t. Man, I remember back when you first started following Francis around. I remember me and Toni spent like 3 weeks _straight_ laughing at him. Are you still such a killjoy? How _is_ Francis doing nowadays? He hasn’t tried to contact my admittedly intimidating self in forever. Some days I even have a spare millisecond in my busy life that I could use to talk to him.”  
  
“Master Francis is better off without your influence.” That wasn’t to say that Master Francis was doing very well, what with his life of high crime, but Vash rarely wavered in his principles. And he had established very early on that Gilbert equaled trouble. “And I was merely doing my job.”  
  
Gilbert’s pocket started vibrating. “Just a sec…” he pulled out a pale yellow phone and answered it. “Yeah, this is Beilschmidt… yeah? Well keep your panties unbunched, McKirkland. I’m sure Special Agent Jones is fine.”  
  
Special Agent Jones?  
  
“Look, just sit tight and I’ll go out there and take a look too. Two sets of eyes couldn’t hurt, right? ‘Sides, it’s fucking boring around here right now,” Gilbert put his hand over the mic in his phone and whispered “not talking about you, of course” at Vash before resuming his conversation. “Jones can handle himself. I bet his badge just… fell off on its own. Or something.”  
  
Gilbert left without excusing himself, which was fine by Vash. Because he was alone again. Good. Vash would never again complain about being forgotten about in an Italian interrogation room if the alternative was fifteen minutes with Gilbert Beilschmidt.  
  
Except the tail end of that conversation sounded very suspicious. Anyone else might have waved away the familiar last name, because Jones was a very common last name for Americans, and Americans seemed to be everywhere these days. But Vash Zwingli was a suspicious person, along with a heavily paranoid gun owner.  
  
And somewhere in his bones, he knew the reason he was in jail was all _Alfred’s_ fault. This did not please him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I _said_ Alfred was a hero. 


	24. Home is Where the Heart Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antonio arrives in Venice and in the span of a day beats some guys up, yells at his boss and has his dreams come true.

The first thing Antonio did when he arrived at the city proper was head straight for Feliciano’s home. The only information he’d been given ( _had beaten out of his co-worker_ ) back in Spain was that something had happened to Feliciano and Lovino had left immediately to check on him.   
  
Antonio had met Feliciano a few times; mostly from before Mr. Vargas had given him his job making sure Lovi was safe. But even though Antonio didn’t have to ( _and technically wasn’t supposed to_ ), he still dropped in on Feliciano from time to time. Feliciano was very easy to talk to, and often chatted freely about his brother, which was a huge plus. Antonio liked hearing about Lovi’s childhood when he could. He wished he’d been around to see it.  
  
The thought that something could have happened to Feliciano unsettled him. Antonio liked to think that they were family, at the very least in that weird mafia sense. Distant family, but family still?  
  
When he’d arrived at the mansion, Lovino hadn’t been there. Antonio hadn’t needed to go inside to know that. He just had. Antonio lived a lot of his life off his feelings: that twinge in the back of his brain that let him know someone was about to attack him, that churning feeling deep in his gut that told him that something was wrong, that twisting ache that he knew was directly related to how many dates Lovi had gone on that week… The feeling Antonio had as he stepped over the threshold spoke to him. It told him to be prepared. Deciding that was a good suggestion, Antonio took off his suit jacket and threw it on one of the small tables lining the entryway. It wouldn’t do to have his motion hampered if he needed it in a pinch.  
  
Feliciano’s house was huge, but the first place Antonio checked was the hallway on the second floor where he knew the main bedrooms were. It was a lucky guess; just as he turned to check the first bedroom off the hallway, Antonio heard something. It sounded like shouting.  
  
It was coming from behind the biggest doors: from Feliciano’s bedroom.  
  
Antonio didn’t think, not about who could be behind the doors or what they could be doing there ( _not thinking saved him a lot of stress. A lot of heartache too_ ). He just walked over and opened them…  
  
Only to find an empty room. It definitely belonged to Feliciano, the pictures and paint and trinkets easily gave it away as the master bedroom, even if the size didn’t. But the room was a mess, and not like how Feliciano’s workroom was a mess upstairs. The bedroom was full of broken glass and collapsed furniture. And the doors that led to the connecting bathroom were shaking.  
  
Shaking because someone was pounding on them. And shouting.  
  
Now that he was closer, Antonio could distinguish the shouts as cries for help.  
  
He continued not to think.  
  
In four long strides, Antonio was across the room and shoving various pieces of furniture away from the door. A heartbeat later and he had the shaking door kicked down. Only to find himself face-to-face with two momentarily relieved looking strangers.  
  
“Hey, thanks, man. I thought we were gonna be stuck in here forever. Wait, are you new?” was all the first man had time to say before Antonio started thinking again, just for a moment. That moment was enough for Antonio to conclude that these strangers weren’t part of _his_ family. They didn’t belong here… and they might know where Feliciano was. Where _Lovino_ was.  
  
Antonio wasn’t very good at interrogations. Mr. Vargas had told him, when he was younger, that he got a little too excited with the T and tended to forget about the much more important I. He’d been a little ashamed, because he’d always thought of himself as an easy going, gentle-hearted person. Mr. Vargas had laughed at that.  
  
He hit the first man, still looking at him expectantly, in the face. The crunch of a breaking nose snapped through the air. Antonio stopped thinking again. The second man stared at his fallen friend for a moment, but regained some composure and a little sense of ( _false_ ) security as his hands scrambled to his belt, only to pull out a sleek switchblade.  
  
Knives didn’t impress Antonio; sometimes he used them, but mostly he didn’t. He was far more comfortable with his fists. He hated it when people hung onto blades like a crutch. The grunts glued to their guns were even worse. At least a knife or a hatchet had some _beauty_ to it.  
  
But Antonio didn’t have time to be properly disgusted, because the first man was standing again, stumbling nearer, not even minding the streams of blood rushing out from his nose and trickling down from the corners of his mouth. The fool should have just stayed down.   
  
Once he got close enough, Antonio grabbed the bleeding man by the neck, and used his own momentum to turn him around and smash his head brutally against the corner of the nearby sink. The porcelain might have cracked at the blow, or maybe that was from the bleeding man’s fists, which had flailed desperately in their attempt to stop the inevitable.  
  
Still, there was no rest for the weary. As Antonio had been preoccupied with the first stranger, the second had snuck up behind him. There was that tinge in Antonio’s brain again… And he ducked as a knife swung an arc right through where his neck had been.  
  
That wasn’t very nice.  
  
Neither was Antonio’s response. Using the brute strength that had gotten him a job in the first place, Antonio grabbed onto one end of the towel rack on the wall and _pulled_. A loud _crack_ and a shower of plaster later, and Antonio possessed his own makeshift weapon. He told people his strength stemmed from his youth, when his mother had always insisted that he drink his milk. Others tended to call foul on that little story, and they were right. She’d never paid much attention to him.  
  
The man with the knife looked vaguely ill but pressed on, slashing and stabbing wherever he could in Antonio’s general direction. Nothing landed; he was afraid of getting too close. And Antonio knew that he’d already won the fight, because fighting scared equaled losing fast. But the same sick pleasure that bubbled up inside his soul, now and then, stopped Antonio from finishing the fight quickly. These suits didn’t _deserve_ a quick, clean fight. Not when they might have done something to the Vargas brothers.  
  
Antonio swung wide with the jagged metal rod in his hand. He hit the mirror, and shards of glass sprayed onto the prone figure of the man still lying half in the bowl of the sink. He hit the siding tiles. He hit the flooring, again mingling blood with porcelain. And throughout it all he smiled; a giant, charming grin.  
  
The second stranger stumbled back and tripped over the legs of his partner, but didn’t lose hold of his knife. In Antonio’s opinion, that meant this was still a weapons fight. He strengthened his grip on the metal bar in his hand before bringing it down against the man in front of him  
  
One.  
  
Two.  
  
Three times.  
  
He stopped when he heard the clatter of the knife falling to the floor. Good. They could go back to fighting like men.  
  
The man formerly in possession of a knife might not have been in any condition to fight, but that didn’t stop Antonio from crashing his fists into the man’s side until he could feel the bruises starting to form on his hands.  
  
Only when he noticed that the whimpering, bleeding stranger in front of him might be crying did Antonio realize that he hadn’t said a word since the moment he had first stepped into the mansion. Mr. Vargas always said that even if asking questions first wasn’t necessary, asking questions _at some point_ generally was.  
  
Adrenaline allowed Antonio the last bit of strength he needed to pick up the half-conscious man and throw him against the side of the bathtub. The man landed half upright, which was even better.  
  
Antonio surveyed the damage to the bathroom… and remembered how much Feliciano hated violence. Well. He would pay for the repairs, somehow. What was more important right now were the questions.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Antonio kicked a few piles of old mail and notices off his kitchen table before sitting down on it, and flipping open his phone. Gathering all his courage, he pressed and held the number 2.  
  
 _Ring_.  
  
 _R-_. “I was wondering if you’d ever have the balls to call, boy.” There were no background noises this time.  
  
Antonio jumped to the defensive. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vargas. I did what I thought I needed to do.”  
  
“The thing is, kid, I like you. I like you a lot. But that doesn’t mean I pay you to think, or that I even _like_ you to think.”  
  
That was all anyone ever told him. “I guess that’s true…”  
  
“You are never supposed to move without my express permission.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”

“You are never supposed to contact either of my grandsons without my express permission.”  
  
He fiddled at the new bandages covering his knuckles. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re a cute kid, Fernandez, but you don’t know how the world works. Hired hands aren’t hired brains, boy. Things tend to get dangerous when kids like you forget that.”  
  
How could he forget his place in the world if Mr. Vargas never stopped talking about it? “…sir?”

“Tell me where you are. It’ll be a lot easier than an old man like me having to search for you. I don’t care what you’ve gotten up to as long as you go back to your duties immediately.”  
  
He was incredulous. “You mean you don’t know?”  
  
“What was that, kid?”  
  
“You don’t know what happened to your own precious grandsons?”  
  
“Don’t insult me. Of course I know.”  
  
“Then you should know I’m in Venice: like you should be!”  
  
Even Antonio knew he had stepped over a line, once he’d shouted it. “Your ass isn’t nice enough that I’d let you mouth off to me, boy. I’ve given you plenty of freedoms and a life you never could have dreamed of when I found you.” Antonio frowned because he knew it was true. “Calm down, kid. Don’t screw this up.” That was right. Romolo Vargas was infamous for being swift and harsh. He must not be lying; he wouldn’t give so many warnings to a regular grunt who had gone off on his own. For whatever reason, Antonio got special treatment.  
  
“I know, sir. But I can’t just stand by. I have to help him!”  
  
 _Click_.  
  
“Boy! You’d better not have hung up! Boy?” Romolo Vargas closed his phone and ducked as he stepped out of his personal jet and walked towards the car waiting for him on the runway of the Marco Polo International Airport.   
  
“He’s in Venice, huh…”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
He might not have a job anymore ( _he probably didn’t, after all the shouting he’d done_ ), but Antonio still needed to eat. So after he’d hung up on his ( _former?_ ) boss, he’d gone to pick up some dinner for himself. There was no sense in being hungry while he scrambled his brains for ideas. He was going to need to find a new job, because Mr. Vargas had sounded less than happy, which meant that he’d already passed the scary flat tone he used when he was going to beat someone up. Which meant that Antonio also needed to find a way to not get knocked off; he really didn’t feel like dying yet.  
  
And most importantly, he needed to find Lovino. Because, although he technically no longer had anything to do with Lovi, he still wanted to make sure Lovino was alright. And Antonio still loved him. That too.  
  
Antonio rounded a corner and flexed the hand that wasn’t holding his dinner. He’d gone a little overboard back at the mansion. He’d thought he’d just bruised his hands, but when he’d had the time to clean them, after dragging the unconscious men down to the storeroom and locking them in the service elevator, he’d realized that some of the blood on his hands belonged to him. He’d rubbed ( _hit_ ) them raw. Luckily his apartment still had a functional first aid kit.  
  
Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about the stains in his clothes. He was down his best shirt and slacks now. Add that to the repairs to Feliciano’s bathroom and Antonio was almost sorry he had snapped at Mr. Vargas. Almost.  
  
It was after Antonio looked up from his hands that he noticed it.  
  
Him.  
  
He wouldn’t have noticed it, if the boy, no… if the man on the bench hadn’t been in the process of ruffling up his styled hair. But he was, and in that process he managed to free a very distinctive strand. Add that to the absolutely _exhausted_ posture, and Antonio had to ask. Even if he was just seeing things out of longing. He had to.  
  
“Lovi? Is that you?” Just as Antonio finished saying the name, the stranger turned his head and gave him a _look_. And Antonio knew. It was Lovino.  
  
Antonio might have taken the chance to hug Lovi in relief ( _he was alright!_ ), but all of a sudden his brain caught up with what his eyes had been seeing. So instead, he stared. Antonio couldn’t remember a time when he had seen Lovino wearing jeans. He had very diligently filed away all the memories of Lovino in the more formfitting clothes he wore when he took his dates to clubs. But those memories weren’t the happiest of his life, and they had nothing on this.  
  
For once, Antonio thanked any god that would listen for modern day fashion. Because although Lovi’s pants were sinfully tight, although his shirt wasn’t much better ( _and was riding up, showing just the slightest hint of skin_ ), and although the scowl on his face set off the uncaring sprawl of his body against the bench, the sum of the parts equaled something undeniably _good_.  
  
So Antonio stared, and for once it wasn’t because he was off in his own little world. Who in their right mind would want to be in some other world when Lovi was in front of him looking like _that_?  
  
Lovino didn’t have quite the same attitude. He realized who the stranger was immediately, cursed his luck for having the world throw him every curve ball today, and decided not to say anything unless Antonio said something. And then Antonio had the nerve to go and say something. And then Antonio had the nerve to start staring at him, as though he were a particularly interesting piece of art.  
  
Stupid stalker.  
  
“What are you doing here.”  
  
Antonio didn’t stop drinking in the sight. “Getting dinner.”  
  
Lovino thought about it good and hard. He thought about it some more. And even though he knew it wouldn’t do him any good, habits were habits. He snapped back at Antonio in the harshest tone he could muster. “You fucking moron, I meant what are you doing _here_. In Venice.”  
  
His stupid stalker had the gall to look at _him_ as though he was strange. “It’s where you are… although being on the same street is really a coincidence, I swear!” Lovino didn’t believe him. It showed. “I promise! I was hungry and my apartment’s just down that street over there.” He pointed, displaying a well-bandaged hand. Lovino realized at that point that Antonio looked as tired as he himself felt.  
  
“Whatever.” He slumped back against his bench and waved Antonio away. “Just leave then.” While his bench wasn’t exactly comfortable, it was still better than lying in the street. And while his day had been horrible, Lovino was nowhere near to stooping that low.  
  
Antonio didn’t leave. Instead he walked closer. “Are you alright, Lovi?”  
  
…he actually had a lot of answers to that, but Italian didn’t have nearly enough curses to correctly convey what Lovino felt at the moment. “What do you think?”  
  
“I think you need a good rest.” A distinctive growl interrupted Antonio’s words. “And dinner.”  
  
Lovino thought about it. Well if Antonio was offering… it wouldn’t be the worst option. He didn’t want to return to the mansion. And Lovino definitely didn’t want to spend any more time with his new ‘teammates’ than he absolutely had to. At least there would be free food?  
  
Not ten minutes later, Lovino found himself standing in the main room of Antonio’s cramped apartment. The owner of the apartment had vanished around the corner, into the kitchen, leaving Lovino alone to survey his temporary quarters. They weren’t too bad; at least the walls looked like they were made of more than cardboard. But the shelves were in disarray, and the table was a mess of papers and books.  
  
He held back any and all snide comments about Antonio being able to read and swept his hand out to shove everything from the table to the floor. A yelp from the kitchen signaled that Antonio had probably noticed the noise. Either that or he’d burned himself. Lovino didn’t care. He was still in his stupid teenager’s clothes, he was tired and he was hungry.  
  
If there was ever a combination that lead to the crankiest Lovino Vargas, this was it ( _excluding the Lovino Vargas that came about after a night of heavy drinking. That outlier was off the charts_ ).  
  
When Antonio came rushing out of the kitchen, he still had half a box of food in one hand and a spoon in the other. “You… you didn’t knock over the flowers, did you?!”  
  
Flowers? What flowers?  
  
Antonio blushed, looked over at a pile of books under one of the windows and heaved a sigh of relief. Lovino assumed that was because the pile still had a vase full of some of the plainest looking flowers he’d ever seen resting on top of them. “Oh good, they’re still there.”  
  
Lovino was quick to connect the dots. At least ( _comparatively_ ) when dealing with Antonio. “…who are those for?” He already knew the answer.  
  
The moron moved to scratch the back of his head, realized that hand was still holding his dinner and made a quick retreat back into the kitchen. He shouted his reply from a safe distance. “Ah…surprise? I got you some flowers!”  
  
Lovino idly inspected the small yellow blooms. They smelled nice, for all that they weren’t especially beautiful. “So are you saying I’m unattractive or are you saying that I smell like a girl?”   
  
“Neither.” His host reappeared from the kitchen, this time with two plates full of the best kind of food. Free. “But I still think they suit you.”  
  
“Why the hell would you think that?” Now Lovino was the one blushing. Shit.  
  
“They’re mignonettes…” Lovino gave Antonio the blank look he fully deserved, for saying that like it was supposed to mean something to him.  
  
Antonio set the plates down on his table. Had it always been so clean? “My friend made me learn about flowers when we were in boarding school. That was before I started working in Italy. I guess it doesn’t work so well when both people don’t know the meanings!”  
  
He’d been to boarding school? “You’re a freak for remembering all of that shit.”  
  
Antonio smiled. “You think so? I always thought it came second nature to me because of my passionate spirit!”  
  
“…Seriously?” Was this guy for real?  
  
Antonio looked up, confused. “Yes?”  
  
Apparently he was. A small part of Lovino was unsurprised by this fact. The rest of him was embarrassed that that small part even existed. It had steadily grown bigger, over the years, as Lovino had gotten to know Antonio better. As he’d bothered to know Antonio at all ( _that was the part that really unsettled him_ ).  
  
The rest of the meal passed in an eerie silence, which Antonio broke once Lovino set down his fork. “You could stay here.”  
  
Lovino was a tiny bit less grumpy now that he’d been fed. But only a tiny bit. “What…”  
  
“Something bad happened to Feliciano.” When Lovino opened his mouth to demand an explanation, Antonio rushed to provide it before he even needed to ask. “I was at the mansion, I know that much. And I know you have to act fast, you need to stay hidden for some reason that I don’t really get and you need to be somewhere you can trust.” He drew a deep breath. “That sounds like right here.”  
  
Lovino didn’t laugh at him. That was good. “Who said I trusted you?”  
  
“I won’t tell anyone where you are. I promise. I trust your judgment; if you say this is something important that you can’t ask for help for, then that’s what it has to be.”  
  
“You’re too simple.”  
  
Antonio smiled his best self-deprecating smile. “Yeah…I’ve been told that a lot.”  
  
“It’s not a compliment.”  
  
That smile. “Yeah…”  
  
“Stupid.”  
  
A little time passed. “…well?”

“Well what?”  
  
“What do you say? To staying here.”  
  
Lovino didn’t even have to think about it. Which scared him, later, once he’d thought about it. “…where’s the bed?”  
  
Antonio pointed, because he knew if he opened his mouth all that would come out would be shouts of joy.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
While Lovino commandeered his bedroom, Antonio cleaned up dinner. Arms deep in the dishwater, he reflected on the situation at hand. Lovino hadn’t exactly come to him, but he certainly trusted Antonio with a lot ( _with the knowledge of Feliciano’s abduction, with his confidence, with himself_ ).   
  
Antonio had told himself, year after year, that he would tell Lovi how he felt if he could find the right time. He had known he was gay before he’d even seen the boy-turned-boss that he was supposed to watch. He’d known it even before he’d started working for Mr. Vargas. It wasn’t a problem for him, most times, and as he didn’t have much free time after he started looking after Lovino, Antonio didn’t think about it much because to him it wasn’t really important.  
  
It started to become important after he realized, a few months later, that Lovi was really _really_ cute. A few years later, when Antonio realized that he might kind of sort of have really deep feelings for the man he protected, it suddenly became one of the forefront thoughts in his mind.  
  
Mostly because he almost never saw Lovino without a lady on his arm. Sometimes there were two ( _although when there were two, usually they took different arms to hang off of. Which made sense, because if they were both holding the same arm, the girls would have to stand very strangely, and it would be difficult to walk down the street_ ). Once there had been four. Antonio had taken Lovino’s frequent dinners, movies, dances, late nights and early mornings with various women as a sign that his love would always be unrequited because of the freak roulette of nature. He’d come to terms with that, and had been working up the nerve to tell Lovi how he felt anyway.  
  
Lovino deserved to know.  
  
But then early one morning, not even a year before, Antonio had arrived at his usual street corner with his favorite newspaper only to see Lovino standing close to a man Antonio had never seen before. He’d hid behind a streetlamp. Lovi and the stranger had spoken quickly and quietly, before the man had pressed a light kiss to Lovi’s jaw and had disappeared off into the morning light.  
  
Antonio might not be the most observant, but he’d been around the business long enough to know what a male prostitute looked like.  
  
That was the end of Antonio’s bittersweet thoughts of an unfortunate misplaced love, and the beginning of his darker dreams that Lovi really didn’t like him. He’d never used the word ‘hate’ but Antonio couldn’t think of any better words in the quiet night of his various apartments, when it was only him and his purely bitter thoughts.  
  
Did Lovino even find him attractive? Francis and Gilbert had both said Antonio was a looker, back in the day…  
  
Understandably, Antonio hadn’t been in the best mood in the following months. If he’d broken a few limbs that he hadn’t necessarily _needed_ to break in the line of duty, well, it was the mafia. No one expected him to pull his punches, now did they? It was probably a good thing he had an almost constant source of stress relief in this line of work. It kept him out of trouble ( _surprisingly with the law, unsurprisingly with Lovi, who he didn’t have the chance to accidentally talk to as he’d been so busy_ ).  
  
Antonio came back to the present when he realized that the sink was overflowing. He quickly turned off the faucet and went in search of a towel. Along the way, he gave himself a pep talk, because frankly, he needed it.  
  
“Towel, towel, where are they… ah! There.” He began mopping up the spilled water and suds. “Alright. You’ve got to be strong Fernandez. You’re going to tell him today. You’ve waited long enough…” He stopped mopping and sighed. “But now isn’t the right time either. Not with Feliciano missing… It’s stupid, anyway. I shouldn’t bother. I’m just his… his ‘stalker’ although I’m not even sure about that anymore. No! Don’t get discouraged! Even if Lovi always tells me to go away, if he really meant it, he would _do_ something about it! It’s been years! I’m going to tell him I love him tonight!”  
  
He clasped his wet hands against his mouth when he realized how loud he’d been speaking. _Damn…_. But there were no sounds from the other room. Antonio relaxed, and continued talking to himself while he cleaned.  
  
“Maybe it doesn’t have to be tonight. But I should tell him, I need to.” That was true. He was becoming an emotional wreck. Antonio didn’t like being an anything wreck. “I’ll tell him. _Sometime_ … Maybe he doesn’t need to know yet. Ever. Yet—”  
  
“What don’t I need to know?”  
  
And that was Lovino, standing in the doorway. His face was neutral, but Antonio couldn’t tell if it was _carefully_ neutral or _naturally_ neutral. The difference could mean life or death at this point ( _Lovino would kill him if he ever found out…_ ).  
  
“Nothing! It’s just I…”  
  
Lovi’s expression didn’t change “Yeah?”  
  
“The thing is…” he waited for Lovino to interrupt him again. He didn’t. “…uh, the thing. There is a thing. It is thing-like. And…” Why in the world had he thought he could do this?  
  
Words escaped Antonio, but only figuratively. So he filled the silence by standing up, stepping close to Lovino, grabbing him by the shoulders, and _showing_ him how he felt. This equated to what would have been a better kiss if Antonio had remembered to breathe during it, but all the same, he was kissing Lovino.  
  
Finally.  
  
He’d finally done it ( _and all on his own too!_ )! Almost anyway, he still hadn’t exactly come out and _said_ “Lovino Vargas I love you. I’ve loved you for years. I want to spend the rest of my life next to you. Not across the street, watching you.”  
  
There would be time for that later. Right now, Antonio’s brain remebered that Antonio’s lungs preferred to receive fresh oxygen now and again. He broke the kiss and spluttered, drawing in huge, gasping breaths. But he didn’t move away, or take his hands from Lovino’s shoulders.  
  
Until Lovino put his hands over Antonio’s and Antonio felt his heart melt a little. Lovino was touching him. Freely. He could really get used to this. Should he get used to this? Lovino wasn’t saying anything, and his face was the cute one he wore when he was doing basic math in his head or making lists of people that weren’t going to see the sunrise. Antonio liked all of Lovino’s expressions. He’d gotten to see so many of them, through the years, first as he’d just watched Lovi, and then later on as he’d, well, _watched_ him.  
  
Oh no. What if Lovi thought he was **weird**?!  
  
Antonio grimaced, and then yelped. Because Lovi had smacked him in the face, just hard enough that Antonio still felt the sting. Wait a second, when had Lovi taken his hands away from Antonio’s? Why was it so drafty? And how had he managed to place himself flat on his back, on his own kitchen table without even noticing it?  
  
It might have had something to do with Lovino, and how he had unceremoniously removed Antonio’s hands from his shoulders, had unceremoniously shoved Antonio over and onto the table and had proceeded to _very_ ceremoniously unbutton Antonio’s third best shirt ( _Fuck if he was going to ruin a perfectly good piece of clothing_ ) after slowly straddling Antonio with even more ceremony. But Antonio had been too busy worrying if Lovi didn’t like him to notice. So Lovino had turned to violence.  
  
Antonio tried use his hands to rub at his tingling face, but couldn’t, because Lovino was holding them down. “Why did you hit me?”  
  
Lovino’s face turned red. It was cute. “If you don’t want me to fucking hit you again, then you’d better pay attention!” Oh. Yeah, Antonio guessed his mind wandered sometimes. It wasn’t a bad thing, though. Mostly he just indulged in lots of daydreams, which really helped the hours go by when nothing particularly interesting was happening to Lovi, or—  
  
 **SMACK**  
  
The force of the openhanded blow made Antonio’s head knock into the tabletop. His bangs flew into his eyes, and Antonio could taste the slightest hint of blood from where one of his teeth had cut into the side of his mouth. He felt alive.  
  
Lovino was looking at him now. Really looking. “Pay. Attention.” This time Lovino frowned. “Were you serious, with what you said back there?”  
  
Antonio spoke with his eyes ( _he’d really have to work on that verbal communication thing_ ) and confirmed by nodding his head. He’d meant every word, even the half-coherent wisps of thoughts.  
  
“Good.” Lovino leaned forward.   
  
_Guh_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn that was long! Anyway, I already knew that I like writing Spain 40% adorable, 40% pathetic and 20% **AXE CRAZY** , but I learned something new this part: I also like him as a masochist. It makes sense to me. Next part, well. Don’t get your porn hopes up. But I like to think it’s still good as is.


	25. Lovino Vargas is Not Gay (He’s Just in Love With the Man He Enjoys Having Sex With)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovino wakes up and doesn't have to face the consequences of his actions. Or so he thinks. Antonio is still in Afterglowland either way.

Now this was different. For the first time in a long time, Lovino Vargas woke up completely calm. He was completely relaxed. Almost… almost content even. Recognizing the feeling, Lovino smirked to himself. He buried his face back into the delicious warmth of the covers and trailed one hand over the naked body lying tangled in the sheets next to him.  
  
But.  
  
Something felt different. Now, he hadn’t gotten any in a little while ( _he could have if he’d_ wanted _to!_ ) but the last time he’d felt up a woman, there’d been a few more curves. And she hadn’t had a pe—  
  
 ** _Oh God what had he done?!_**  
  
Lovino sat up like a shot and stared at the man lying next to him.  
  
This was…this…he… No.   
  
Wait.   
  
No no _no_. Lovino was **not** gay, in the strictest sense of the word, well okay that wasn’t quite the truth Father, little white lie there. So fine: he kind of wasn’t straight in the strictest sense either, but. Fine. Well. Alright, so maybe he’d figured out that he preferred men just a tiny bit more, but that didn’t mean that he had such bad taste! He was **not** gay for Antonio! Only a little bit, shut up!  
  
Then the full force of it hit him. He was gay, for Antonio, and they had had ( _gay gay gay_ ) sex the night before. Shit.   
  
And to be honest, he’d known about his slight, _slight_ , inclination for his stalker for months. Had already accepted it as the truth, deep down in his mind, even without the ( _gaaay~_ ) sex.  
  
Shit.  
  
Well, at least his ass didn’t hurt. That was a good sign. But. Holy shit, he’d slept with Antonio. And liked it. He really _was_ gay.  
  
Lovino had discovered something was… wrong… with him almost two years prior. His dates had begun to seem more boring than usual, and his face would heat up whenever he saw a newspaper and he hadn’t known why. Then he’d ended up thinking of Antonio, and Antonio’s face and Antonio’s _smile_ at the worst times. The very worst ( _luckily Adriana had only heard the first garbled syllable as he had cried it out. Unluckily, that meant that she thought for a very long time that Lovino actually cared for her_ ).  
  
He’d rationalized to himself, then, that it must be his grandfather’s genes acting up. Romolo had been well known for his fighting, but what he was _really_ known for, at least inside the family, was his… promiscuity. His open-mindedness. His penchant for screwing 40 virgins ( _male or female_ ) and maybe a mule every other Thursday night.  
  
That last one was probably just a joke, gossip spread by the lower echelons of the family. But Lovino knew his grandfather well, and he wouldn’t be surprised if it was even just a little true. However, regardless of what his grandfather was or was not, Lovino Vargas was no sexual deviant.  
  
It was just a phase.  
  
Boredom, manifesting itself as Lovino’s eyes zeroing in on Antonio’s ass no matter what he or his stalker were supposed to be doing at the time. Of course. So the logical conclusion had been to try and relieve himself of these tensions. Because that’s all it was. Tension. Probably related to the stress of his work.  
  
Normal.  
  
The first time Lovino had slept with a man he had been nervous and uncomfortable. The last time ( _up until last night… no! He was not thinking about that right now! It’s just a phase!_ ) had been awkward and uncomfortable, because the other man’s name hadn’t started with an ‘A’, actually, which had made things really hard for Lovino to explain the next morning when whoever-he-was decided to make a big deal out of it.  
  
Lovino had sworn his phase as a homosexual was over, then, because goddammit if some men couldn’t be shriller than a teenage girl when they shouted.  
  
Of course, the next day Lovino had been back to the bakery, and back to staring at Antonio out of the corner of his eyes. His stalker had looked a little ill by then. He probably wasn’t getting enough sleep, if the bags under his eyes were anything to go by. Lovino might have gone across the street to offer Antonio some coffee or a pastry if that didn’t mean going near him and talking to him and trying to be around him without being immediately smote down by a bolt of lightning for his indecent thoughts.  
  
Lovino blamed his grandfather. For everything.  
  
Antonio’s phone began to ring, interrupting Lovino’s panicked introspection. It was funny; Lovino had always assumed that Antonio would be the type to program cutesy little songs as the ringers for each of his contacts. It figured that the bastard would be too lazy to actually do it. He reached around the unconscious lump on his left to shut the damn contraption up. In doing so, he inadvertently learned who the caller was.  
  
 _‘The fuck’s the old man doing calling him now?’_  
  
Lovino had been pretty sure who had hired Antonio before. This just confirmed it. The temptation to throw open the phone, accept the call and chew his grandfather out was great, but he really didn’t want to give the old man the satisfaction. Or let him know where Lovino was. There was still business to finish.  
  
Instead, he carefully powered the device down, and carefully tossed it across the room. Once done, Lovino realized that he probably should have kept it. Because now he was awake in a bed with his sleeping– with a sleeping Antonio and he didn’t know what to do. He could leave, except he didn’t have anywhere else to go, and the mad scramble for clothes usually woke them up anyway.  
  
And then there was the part where he was tired and he didn’t want to get up. He _deserved_ a longer rest. Who was Antonio to force him out of bed by sheer nervousness?!  
  
And then there was that other part, that part where he didn’t want to get up because he wanted to feel Antonio up a little bit more before Antonio knew what was going on. That part was just a phase so Lovino ignored it.  
  
Unfortunately, soul-searching takes time, and Lovino’s had run out. Antonio woke up with a soft groan. When his eyes opened, the first thing he saw was Lovino’s sexy scowling face. Then he took in Lovino’s sexy naked torso. A few seconds later he realized that it hadn’t been a dream.  
  
 _Yes._  
  
“Good morning, Lovi.” Antonio felt a thousand times better than he had the morning before. Even though there was one thing nagging at the back of his mind as he stretched. What was it… oh yes. The searing pain. That was it.  
  
Antonio winced in pain that was a few hours shy of being agony. It might have been worth it, but damn if it didn’t hurt. “It’s a good thing I still had that olive oil lying around! Otherwise… _ouch_ … I don’t know if I could sit up right now.”  
  
Lovino was still looking at him. Antonio was ecstatic about that until he noticed that the expression on Lovino’s face was strangely close to disgust. “Lovi…?”  
  
His voice was flat. “Nothing happened.”  
  
Strange, Antonio remembered a lot of things happening the night before. Maybe Lovino was talking about something else? Hmmm… maybe Lovino was worried about him! “Don’t worry, I heal really quickly. I should be fine in a few hours. But uh… could you maybe help me to the bathroom?” Sitting up had been alright, but when Antonio swung his first leg out of bed he knew he was going to be in trouble. He would have fallen onto the floor had Lovino not thrown out an arm to steady him.  
  
“You can’t even fucking take care of yourself!” Lovi’s face was all scrunched up and adorable. It was nice, being able to see it up close. “I don’t even know why I bother, and look, your hands are bleeding again you stupid _stupid_ idiot.”  
  
Lovino didn’t even know what he was complaining about anymore, much less why. The man currently leaning on him heavily for support was a moron. That had already been established. So why was Lovino throwing an arm around Antonio’s waist and helping him limp his way to the bathroom that connected on to the bedroom ( _other than pride. Oh yes, Antonio was like this because of **him**_ )? Why was Lovino holding a naked man?  
  
 _Why was he enjoying this?!_  
  
“I’m sorry? I usually try really hard to not get hurt, but last night was kind of…” Antonio paused, wobbled a bit more and continued. Lovino assumed his tiny mind had only momentarily broken. “…it was… it… nice. It was nice.”  
  
That was an insult. “Nice? That’s it?”  
  
“ _Yeah_.”  
  
They finally reached the bathroom and Antonio made his way into the shower, with Lovino’s help. The last look Lovino had of Antonio was his slightly dazed, smiling face as he turned the hot water on. It was at that point that Lovino, in a fine display of Antonio-quality slowness he really must be rubbing off on him, realized that he was happy to see Antonio so happy. And steamy. And wet.  
  
And by ‘he’, he meant his dick.  
  
Lovino swiftly turned and slammed the bathroom door behind him. Shit. He couldn’t even take a cold shower because Antonio was in there cleaning up. He couldn’t do anything _else_ about it, because that would be disgusting and wrong, and really embarrassing if Antonio got out of the bathroom and saw Lovino before he’d finished.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Lovino went about picking up his clothing from where the pieces had fallen the night before. His shirt was over the lamp. He tucked it into the duffel bag he had stored in Antonio’s bedroom before the giant mess that had been Lovino having repeated sexual intercourse with his stalker in a night of unrestrained passion— _no_!  
  
It had not been passion. It was a phase. Phases weren’t passionate.  
  
Lovino had a harder time finding his pants; somehow they had ended up landing half in and half out of a half-open window ( _thank God the blinds had been drawn the entire time_ ). He spared them only a glance before tossing them into the duffel too. Lovino had a hard enough time getting them on when he was… when he didn’t have a _condition_ to take care of. But right now? While Antonio was humming nonsense over the spray of the shower? The thought was laughable, so Lovino stole a pair of Antonio’s slacks instead.  
  
He wouldn’t change into his disguise until later, anyway. Antonio didn’t need to know the particulars of what Lovino was doing for Feliciano.  
  
The patter of the shower stopped. Finally, maybe now Lovino could rush past Antonio into the bathroom and fix his little problem ( _and by little, he meant figuratively little. Because Antonio was not something he ever devoted much thought or stressful contemplation to. Literally, it was a big problem. A very big problem, dammit!_ ).  
  
But the door remained closed.  
  
“Hey Lovi…” Antonio’s voice sounded cautious. “I’m really glad you’re here. I was afraid you wouldn’t be. By the time I woke up.”  
  
So was this have a heart-to-heart through the door hour? Lovino didn’t have time for this; it was starting to _hurt!_ “We can talk about this later.”  
  
His tone was firm. “No.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“There’s nothing to talk about later. We had sex. Several different times.”  
  
Did Antonio think he was denying that? Lovino wasn’t _denying_ it, he was trying to _justify_ it to himself. “I was drunk.”  
  
“No you weren’t.”  
  
Really, if they could do this at any other time, that would be amazing. As it was, Lovino settled on palming himself through Antonio’s spare pants. The low humming had been bad. This no-nonsense note of danger…? “You were drunk.”  
  
“I haven’t had any alcohol since I was in Spain with you.”  
  
“We were not in Spain together. And, uhhh,” he tried to mask the groan as a lack of anything to say, “it was just a momentary lack of judgment!”  
  
“There were a lot of moments… _I_ remember several hours of moments.”  
  
So did Lovino. “W-well…well… it didn’t mean anything because I _say_ it didn’t mean anything!”  
  
Antonio’s voice was small on the other side of the door. “Really?”  
  
Lovino sank down against the bathroom door because his legs couldn’t hold him up anymore. He rubbed his temples with his spare hand because the defeated tone in Antonio’s voice made him want to rip someone’s throat open, even as the closeness of the voice made him want to do things that were just a phase, and had nothing to do with Antonio as a person. “You…” Lovino Vargas had a love-struck idiot on his hands, and, to his dismay, he was rapidly realizing that he wasn’t describing Antonio. He was describing himself. Fuck. “It’s not a phase. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Godfuckingshitfuckdammit I **give up**! It’s not a phase! Okay? Are you happy now? I admit it! But I don’t like it!”  
  
The door opened behind him. “Isn’t it _because_ you like it, that it’s not a phase? Whatever it is? I don’t think I understand what you’re talking about anymore, to be honest…”  
  
Lovino didn’t stick around to catch the confused look he knew was spreading across Antonio’s features. He was too busy shoving Antonio out of the doorway, slamming the door shut and tearing Antonio’s wretched, low quality, _rough_ pants off his body.  
  
Antonio was glad he’d been holding a towel when he’d opened the door. It was cold in his room, compared to the bathroom at least. “Lovi? Is something wrong?”  
  
“YOU. ‘It’ is _you_.” That was a strange noise. Antonio hoped everything was alright in there. Even though _he_ was feeling better, that didn’t mean Lovino was. Although Lovi really didn’t have any reason to be in pain in the first place.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Oh?” Lovi’s voice was clearer now. It had probably been nothing. “All you can say is ‘oh’?”  
  
“No, I mean, your alarm just went off. On your phone.”  
  
He turned on the sink to wash his hands. “Which alarm?”  
  
“Several, I think. Because it’s 9:13 right now, and this says it’s been going off since 8:55…”  
  
Fuck, he was supposed to have been out the door by 9! He had to meet the gang of idiots down at their little clubhouse! “Shit! I’m late!”  
  
Clad only in a towel, a still-damp Antonio held his front door open and handed Lovino an apple as he tried to run past, clutching his duffel bag and still trying to put on his left shoe. “Love you.” He adjusted Lovino’s collar; it had been turned up awkwardly in his rush. “Have a good day!” He gave Lovi a little peck on his cheek. “I’ll see you when you get back!” He then closed the door. He then realized what he’d done.   
  
He smiled.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Lovino made it to the safe house by 10:15, after changing back into his disguise, getting something real for breakfast and agonizing for 20 minutes or so over what that kiss and those words were supposed to mean.  
  
Tryggvi, the small one, was the one who answered the door when Lovino knocked. He was probably trying to be polite, or something like that, when he asked, “How was your night?”  
  
The logical part of Lovino’s mind knew that Tryggvi didn’t know anything about him. Couldn’t see past his disguise, and probably didn’t care about the finer points of his personal life. But he couldn’t stop himself from shouting “I didn’t sleep with him!” right as Erzsébet walked into the entryway.  
  
From the glint in her eyes, and a half-repressed memory of their conversation the day before, Lovino knew he could have handled that one a little bit better.  
  
Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: What’s fake-Lovino been getting up to anyway? And that Alfred fellow…
> 
> Also: This part had a completely unrelated little mini-story- _thing_ brought about by a reader's comment on the kink meme. If you want to read it in all its short, vampiric glory, go [here](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/11813.html?thread=38538277#t38538277).


	26. ‘Lovino’ Fucking Vargas Doesn’t Fucking Appreciate Being Fucking Kidnapped by a Bunch of Fuckers. Fuck.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ludwig and Feliciano are still kidnapped. Ludwig may be basically sober again, but that does not mean he has to understand what's going on. Meanwhile, the easy-to-hate OCs are keeping an important man in the basement.

They were trapped in a gilded cage, full of luxuries and jewels. Or maybe that was the hangover talking. Ludwig couldn’t quite tell, because everything was too bright and no one was fetching him an aspirin.  
  
“Ludwig?”  
  
That was Feliciano’s voice. That was also Feliciano’s breath in his ear. Those were also ( _presumably_ ) Feliciano’s hands on his shoulders. Now wait just a moment…  
  
 _Let N = the number of alcoholic beverages Ludwig had consumed the night before  
Let H = the number of hours Ludwig had had to sleep those drinks off  
Let F = the number of indecencies Ludwig could have committed while his judgment was impaired  
Let P = the probability that Ludwig’s pants had stayed on his person for the entire night  
Let C = some constant (perhaps 4)  
  
F ^ (N / H) / P * C * WHYWASISLEEPINGNEXTTOFELICIANO = ???  
  
As N tends toward ‘I don’t remember anything after 10:30,’ what are the chances that Ludwig will be murdered in his sleep by a vengeful brother?_  
  
Feliciano loved watching Ludwig sleep, because those were some of the few times when Ludwig really relaxed. But right now they were in serious trouble and Feliciano needed Ludwig to be able to leave at a moment’s notice. When Feliciano had gone to wake him up, though, all Ludwig had done was jerk a little. Then his face had started turning funny colors. How strange.  
  
“Ve… Ludwig? Are you alright?”  
  
“I promise I will uphold your honor.”  
  
“Ve?”  
  
At that point, Ludwig’s eyes got used to the light in the room, and Ludwig’s brain realized that it hadn’t been the hangover talking: he really was lying on a large bed in an unfamiliar, ornately decorated room. “Feliciano… where are we?”  
  
Ludwig just _had_ to start with the hard questions, didn’t he? “First I need you to promise that you’ll do what I tell you to.”  
  
This was beginning to sound like one of Ludwig’s strange reoccurring dreams. But where were the macaroni chains? “…why?”

“Ludwig, ve, you have to promise me!”  
  
“Why can’t I promise you _after_ I’ve heard the answer to my question?”  
  
Blast. Ludwig was too sneaky for his own good and he didn’t even know it! Feliciano flopped back against one of the bed’s spare pillows. “Because you probably won’t promise me anything then.”

“I see.” Ludwig sat up, slowly, and took in the bedroom that surrounded him. Several doors lead off of it; one seemed to open on a sitting room, another led to a bathroom. If the décor didn’t lean on the gaudy side of tasteful, Ludwig might have found it pleasant.  
  
There was silence. But only for a moment.  
  
“Ve! It’s because we got kidnapped and it’s all my fault because I insisted that we keep going to different bars and then I didn’t say anything after I knew you’d had too many because you weren’t moving away anymore when I got closer and then we went home and got kidnapped like I said except you apparently don’t remember that and I had to pretend to be Lovi because I’m pretty sure they would have just killed _me_ because I’ve gotten threats in the past although Lovi doesn’t know that I know that I’ve been getting threats and Grandpa doesn’t know either but his face is even scarier when he’s angry and I wouldn’t tell him but I’m pretty pretty pretty sure I’m getting threats because he slept with someone he wasn’t supposed to and that’s why they’d just kill me instead of holding me hostage but I’m not sure but Lovi always says that holding people hostage is outdated because then you have to feed them and listen to them bitching all the time but then Lovi stopped talking because I think I’m not supposed to hear about what he does and Grandpa does the same thing when he slips up, but he also does the same thing when he swears or when he talks about sex which is weird because I’m an adult now, and I know about all those things, so he really doesn’t have to stop talking about orgies when I’m in the room because even though it’s a little weird, it’s just weird because he’s my Grandpa not because I don’t know how babies are born and and and, ve.”  
  
Ludwig Beilschmidt had learned, within 10 minutes of meeting Feliciano Vargas, that sometimes it was just better to let the man finish. He waited for 20 seconds after the last ‘ve,’ just to make sure.   
  
“I see.”  
  
“Ludwig…?” Feliciano was near tears; near _real_ tears, not the fake ones he occasionally used to get his way. If Ludwig was angry at him for getting them into this mess, then what could he do?  
  
“We are being held hostage?”  
  
And it was all Feliciano’s fault. Somehow. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“We are no longer in your house?”  
  
Where was Ludwig going with this? “…no?”  
  
Ludwig nodded, waited a second for the world to stop spinning, and stood. “Then that is the reason for the horrible design scheme.”  
  
“Ve?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but…”  
  
Ludwig wasn’t going to say anything about the awful crème monstrosity they were sitting ( _and standing_ ) in? All because he thought it had been designed by Feliciano? That was… that was… “Breakthrough, ve!”  
  
Two sharp knocks to the sitting room door cut off Ludwig’s confusion at Feliciano’s outburst. But before he could walk out of the bedroom and see who was at the door, Feliciano had tackled him to the floor. The motion was so familiar that Ludwig already knew the best way to roll to absorb the impact.  
  
Feliciano put a finger to Ludwig’s lips. “Wait! You have to promise not to say anything unless I look at you funny. Then you can repeat the last thing I said, but _only that_!”  
  
“I can do that.”  
  
“You promise?” Ludwig nodded. “And you also promise not to laugh?”  
  
They were in a life-or-death gamble and Feliciano thought Ludwig was going to start laughing? About _what_? “I promise.”  
  
“Oh good. I’m not very good at acting like Lovi yet.” Ludwig must have been staring strangely, because Feliciano quickly sat up and flailed his hands as though that explained everything. “I’m getting better!”  
  
He was, Ludwig was loath to admit as he stood impassively behind Feliciano, actually fairly good at impersonating his older brother. Ludwig would have to request that Feliciano never do this again in front of him. It was severely off-putting.  
  
“What are you fucking doing here, bothering me? Fuck, you should be off fucking getting me some fucking answers!”  
  
The lackey at the door cringed slightly. That was another victory for Feliciano. Ludwig stood behind him, exactly one pace behind and one to the right. He hadn’t known why those precise dimensions were so important, but Feliciano had insisted. Ludwig wasn’t exactly in his element so he had done as instructed.  
  
“We are very sorry for the delay, Mr. Vargas. However, I was sent to tell you that we were very lucky earlier this morning. We were able to capture one of the thieves who may know the whereabouts of your brother, the youngest Mr. Vargas. Mr. Bianchi has instructed me to take you down to where the thief is being held. We understand that you have a very personal connection to this problem, and may wish to help resolve it.”  
  
Ludwig swore the man had sneaked a look at his palm sometime during that little speech. Had he written it down on his hand? Was that cheating?  
  
“Fuck this. Where are we going, v— fuck.”  
  
The man opened the door, the door that Ludwig was unsurprised to notice locked on the outside. “Follow me, Mr. Vargas. Mr. Vargas’s aide.”  
  
There were worse things to be than an aide to an apparent gangster. Regardless, Ludwig began composing a list of the things that were better in his head.  
  
It was a long list.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
“I’d better be getting a raise out of this.”  
  
The man with the rolled up sleeves and the cigarette walked over from his seat near the door. He pulled the stick from his mouth, and slowly twisted the burning end into his prisoner’s thigh, until the last wisp of smoke drifted into nothingness. “What was that? You ready to talk?”  
  
Alfred F. Jones laughed. His eye might have twitched a bit at the pain, but other than that ( _and the drying blood, and the bruises on his face, and his broken bones, and the fact that he was chained to a rickety chair in a dim, leaky room,_ ) he looked just like an advertisement for a new brand of toothpaste. “Just sayin’, _buddy_ , that this is the single least comfortable chair I’ve ever been cuffed to. You Mafia types are supposed to be all fancy, right? ‘Cause I really can’t tell that from the reception you’ve given me. You might want to think about that before you kidnap your next guy.”  
  
 **SMACK**  
  
Alfred F. Jones had just earned himself another cracked rib. He might as well start collecting those instead of shirts at the rate this was going.  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
Alfred had been saving, in the corner of his mouth, a great big surprise for the bastard that had taken sick delight in hitting him for the past… well, he wasn’t sure how long. It felt like it’d been forever and a day. There were no windows in the room, though, so Alfred couldn’t really tell how long it had been. But it was long enough for him to gather enough saliva to spit an almost-mouthful straight into the bastard’s right eye.  
  
Ten points for Jones.  
  
The man with the rolled up sleeves didn’t seem to appreciate that. Not one bit. Alfred was pretty proud of that; proud and glad he’d been spending more time around Gilbert lately. If anybody on the team knew how to be a pain in the ass, it was Gilbert. And even though Alfred knew he was supposed to be sitting straight up and not saying anything ( _except for his name and maybe his field agent serial number if he felt like it_ ), he felt like being a pain in the ass instead. Neither the place nor the man looked to be pretty receptive to INTERPOL agents.  
  
This time the guy aimed for Alfred’s ear, which was pretty lame of him. Alfred needed that to hear the guy’s grunting, unreasonable demands. “Who are you working for?”  
  
Alfred wisely didn’t answer that one. He also began collecting spit again.  
  
“Where is the rest of the gold?”  
  
Oh good. They just thought he was a thief. To many criminal institutions, the word ‘INTERPOL’ was oftentimes just as good as the word ‘cop.’ And the word ‘cop’ was oftentimes synonymous with the words ‘agent KIA.’ Alfred wasn’t too fond of that phrase. “I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?”  
  
“Your boat was carrying _thousands_ less than what we estimated Vargas had in his safe. Where is the rest?”  
  
Was it just Alfred’s impression, or were all of the rough-em-up grunts he’d come across _really_ stupid and _really_ unlucky? Because just as he finished giving away his boss’s master plans ( _come on, who spells it out like that before the prisoner’s blanked out a couple times at least?_ ), the door opened. And framed by the light of the hallway beyond was an almost familiar face.  
  
It was the painter. Or what Alfred assumed the painter’s face would look like if he was really pissed off. The face in the recon photos had always been smiling.  
  
“What the fuck is going on here?!”  
  
The voice was all different too.  
  
The man with the rolled up sleeves tried to backtrack, but it was too late. The door had opened before he’d finished saying ‘your boat.’ He really was an unlucky guy. “Mr. Vargas! Uh, I, uh… I was just questioning the no good thief we detained earlier this morning.”  
  
If by ‘detained’ he meant swarming Alfred with thugs, knocking him out and stealing his boats, then sure. They’d ‘detained’ him.  
  
Mr. Vargas looked ready to spit at the man. Alfred hoped he would. “You think I’m going to fucking believe some shit story like that?”  
  
Another voice joined the fray, this one aged and sickly sweet. Alfred recognized his face from the Wanted posters back in the office. Offices ( _field agents had teams, but they didn’t have a single base to go back to_ ). Bianchi. So he’d been picked up by the Bianchi family, well known for their cruelty among the cruel.  
  
 _Great_.  
  
“Lovino, Lovino. No need for language like that, my boy. It’s been so long since we last met that I almost didn’t recognize you.”  
  
Lovino didn’t say anything, didn’t move closer to Bianchi, who’d stretched his arms out in a welcoming gesture. Smart move. Alfred would have backed up for good measure, from the snake, if he wasn’t chained to a chair that was nailed to the floor.  
  
The display of standoffishness apparently didn’t offend the crime lord. “I see you are the same as always.” Bianchi turned to the man who had been peppering Alfred with questions, in between beatings, and motioned for him to leave. “Go keep Lovino’s assistant company, would you? We wouldn’t want to be rude hosts.”  
  
Alfred didn’t think Lovino had the right to look so uneasy; at least he and his ‘assistant’ were still in the playing mind games stage. Alfred had never gotten that luxury. He’d woken up strapped to his chair, with a greasy fist in his face.  
  
Bianchi stepped closer to Alfred once the door closed behind his lackey. “This is the monster who stole from poor young Feliciano.”  
  
No wonder the guy looked so familiar. He was the painter’s brother. Shit, if Alfred didn’t have terrible luck today too. Was it too much to ask that this Lovino didn’t care about his family?  
  
Lovino walked within two feet of Alfred and his chair before stopping. “You have a fucking brother?”  
  
Alfred could already tell where this was going. Lovino was one of those family types. This was not looking good for Alfred’s face. “I’m sure he does that sometimes; I don’t make it my business to burst into his personal life.”   
  
The main difference between being hit in the face by a lackey and being hit in the face by a boss was the force of the blow. Generally, bosses didn’t have the muscle to really pay out their anger. But there was a tradeoff: bosses also often wore rings. Alfred could feel the metal and the stones ripping tiny cuts against his cheek. Did they always have to go for the face? People always looked at him funny after fights, even though Alfred was one of the good guys!  
  
The boss shook out his hand ( _wimp_ ). “Lovino won’t ask you again what happened to his brother.” Wait, something had happened to the painter? Nothing was supposed to happen to him; he wasn’t even supposed to know that he’d been robbed before Alfred could get his mission done! “I am sure you are aware that Feliciano has certain _connections_. I _personally_ would be alarmed to find out that you had helped harm someone from such a good _family_.”  
  
Wait, wait… the swearing, the thinly laced innuendos… oh shit, the brother was in the Mafia too? Commissioner Kirkland was supposed to warn him about these things! Damn it, Alfred had better be getting compensation for this.  
  
“Bianchi. Fuck it, what was your guy talking about back there?”  
  
Alfred was curious about that too. He hadn’t known about any fighting between Veneziano and the Bianchi family, or else he would have requested backup earlier. There must be some sort of feud between Bianchi and whoever Lovino worked for. And Alfred had gotten caught up in the middle of it. People were so annoying sometimes.  
  
Bianchi was a smooth liar, the sort easily spotted from how calm he was in totally outrageous situations like this one. “I merely like to keep track of my neighbors, Lovino. You should know that already. Currently we have recovered a good amount of your brother’s fortune from this fiend, and are… keeping it safe for him. But from the amount, we expect there may be a significant sum still missing.”  
  
Lovino cursed a soft “fuck” under his breath, but when he slapped Alfred, his heart wasn’t in it. Which was very strange, all things considered. The guy should be furious right now, what with the grinning weasel right in front of him. And the only outlet for violence in the room was Alfred.  
  
But the blow felt more like a token, and if the lighting was better, Alfred might have noticed that Lovino’s hands were shaking.  
  
Bianchi smiled, and spoke again. “There will be more time for that later, Lovino. Now, you and your assistant should return to your rooms.” He pulled a small handgun from his pocket, in what Alfred assumed was supposed to be a menacing gesture. Sheesh, these Mafia guys. Melodramatic much? “I insist. Oh, and no need to tell Russo about any of this. I’m sure he knows by now, if he’s anything like how he used to be.” The boss turned his back on Alfred and made for the room’s single door, holstering his gun again. “Dinner should be ready in a few hours. I promise it shall be exquisite.”  
  
Alfred almost felt sorry for Lovino. The poor guy was being held against his will. Alfred could empathize; except for the fact that _he_ wasn’t forced to jump through the hoops of feigned politeness and friendliness, while facing an ever present smug-faced threat. Between that and being smacked around, Alfred didn’t know which was worse.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Romolo Vargas didn’t pause at the destruction to the front doors of his precious grandson’s mansion. Unlike the rest of the house’s visitors that day, he walked straight to the kitchen without batting an eyelash and started making himself some coffee, his men trailing behind him. There was no sense in panicking now. Not after all the damage had already been done. While his networks seeped through the city, looking for both of his wayward grandsons and his wayward employee, Romolo could wait. He’d gotten much better at waiting for what he wanted over the years.  
  
And when he found out every detail of what had happened, when his boys were safe at home, Romolo would take up matters and beat the shit out of them with his own two hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sorry at all about that paragrentence up there. Because I'm cruel like that.


	27. The World-Famous Vargas Milkshake (Gets Embarrassed Easily)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new heist team assembles to plot new plans. Yes, they are doomed.

Maps and building plans covered every available surface in the parlor. Eduard had initially insisted upon designated pathways, so that no one accidentally stepped on the papers. After several hours of sitting on the floor reviewing diagrams, he looked up only to realize that he was surrounded by a sea of white, with no flooring in sight.  
  
The closest thing to Eduard that _wasn’t_ made of paper was Erzsébet, and even she had somehow managed to get sticky notes stuck to the back of her dress. Francis sat nearby, busy finding ways for the group to get out of Venice as soon as possible. His contacts in Switzerland would be the most useful, at the moment, but without Vash they were difficult to negotiate with.  
  
Eduard’s computer rested between stacks of video tapes on a chair next to Erzsébet. A meter and a half of impassable space stretched between Eduard and his computer. This was not a good thing. “What happened to leaving walkways?”  
  
Only Francis looked up from his work. “I believe the last of them was covered up by Tryggvi just under an hour ago.”  
  
If his voice was a little desperate it was only because he didn’t know how his computer was doing. “Tryggvi?”

“I’m busy.”  
  
“Can you please find somewhere else to place your schematics?”  
  
 _But how could that tunnel really end there if the canal was angled like that…?_ “No. You should have thought of that before you made this room into a mop-yourself-into-a-corner problem.”  
  
“Real men just walk on the floor.” Erzsébet’s sing-song voice appeared for the first time in days. “It doesn’t kill you to get your feet wet.”  
  
While Eduard ignored the outraged voice in the back of his mind that upbraided him for trampling important documents, Francis snapped his phone shut. His tasks, for the moment, were done. But instead of leaving the parlor to get the breakfast he had missed four hours earlier, Francis turned his attention to Tryggvi. He was seated on the floor, directly across from Francis. Long trails of hand drawn maps wound curious shapes around him.  
  
Francis had no problem with the clutter. The layabout on the sofa was another matter entirely.  
  
Tryggvi had ended up in front of one of the parlor’s sofas. Maybe because that was where he’d ran out of papers or maybe because that was where he’d ran out of floor space. He had ended up placing a general map of the city on the couch in front of him for reference while he completed his work on the floor. Of course, he’d had to drape the map over Romano’s legs as the lazy teenager stared at the ceiling and took up precious space.  
  
Francis frowned. “Move or help us.”  
  
Tryggvi continued chewing on a pen cap. “He’s not bothering me.”  
  
Romano yawned in an aggravatingly nonchalant manner that frankly _pissed_ Francis _off_. It reminded him of his father. “I _am_ helping. I’m waiting for a call.”  
  
As though that excused him from actually being useful. For whatever reason, the others had voted Romano into their group after the little boy had secured two more speedboats for them the evening before. Francis had protested; they didn’t know anything about this kid, he was a brat, he was probably straight and just faking it, and Lotte could be such a _bitch_ sometimes. No one had listened to him.  
  
Francis hadn’t understood why they had been so ready to trust again after Alfred.  
  
A light buzzing gave the only warning any of the five had before Romano’s phone revealed him to be the immature teen he was.   
  
_My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard…_  
  
Romano scrambled up from his position lounged on the couch. Despite Tryggvi’s attempts to keep the map on his legs flat, Romano somehow managed to reach over and grab his ever-present duffel bag from the floor next to him. He fumbled through it for a moment or two ( _long enough for the chorus to repeat itself_ ) until he finally located his phone. The ringing was the most annoying sound that Eduard, reunited with his laptop, had ever heard. Erzsébet looked ready to burst from laughter. Tryggvi didn’t care one way or the other, and returned to comparing maps once Romano returned to his former position.  
  
“It’s not my phone, okay? I’m borrowing it, stop looking at me like that!”  
  
They didn’t, but at least Erzsébet pretended she was coughing and excused herself for a glass of water.  
  
Lovino didn’t need to look at the caller. “It’s been more than an hour.”  
  
“I know, but it took me longer than I expected to crack into their database.”  
  
She’d had to gather intel firsthand?  
  
Eduard was curious, but it was Tryggvi who spoke. “Who is it?”  
  
Romano placed a hand over the phone’s microphone and arched an eyebrow, as though to say _Excuse me?_ Can’t you see that I’m _busy?_ Or maybe that was Francis’s imagination flaring up again. “A contact.”  
  
He uncovered Apple Cinnamon’s phone and resumed his conversation. “Whose?”  
  
She sounded impressed. That wasn’t a good thing. “You’re never going to believe this…”  
  
For the slightest moment, Romano appeared as though he could be older than twenty. Little lines creased into being on his forehead, and his eyes took on the mistrustful light of someone who had seen too much of the world. “ _Try me_.”  
  
“INTERPOL.”  
  
The moment passed, and Romano returned to looking like a bratty kid. His next reply was more of a whine than anything. “…really?”

“It gets better…”  
  
When Erzsébet returned, she had completely regained her composure, and Romano had just ended his phone call. Eduard wished Romano would have put it on speakerphone, but he knew better than to ask. Informants could get touchy about their craft. Mixing sources and clients was a quick way to become obsolete.  
  
Tryggvi hadn’t known better and so had been the recipient of a particularly nasty glare.  
  
Erzsébet‘s voice was still a little breathless. “So. What’s new?”  
  
“You guys have a problem.”  
  
Francis rested his head on one of his hands. He hadn’t been able to decipher anything from the phone call; Romano had only given vague replies like ‘hmm’ or ‘he’d better be’ or ‘fucking useless kraut.’ Such things were difficult to work off of. “And his name is Romano. Is there anything else?”  
  
“Your traitor’s a cop.”  
  
What now?  
  
Romano crinkled his nose and sat up. “Okay fine, whatever. He’s an ‘INTERPOL Intelligence Operative.’ Same thing.”  
  
Erzsébet’s voice was now both breathless and shaky. “For how long?”

“I didn’t ask, but I doubt someone gets a job like that after just a year or two.” It was almost like an attempt to comfort her.  
  
“So Alfred was spying on us the entire time…” The tape in her hands snapped in two.  
  
Eduard removed his glasses, wiped them clean on his shirt, and replaced them. “That’s it then, isn’t it? It would be a fool’s errand to try and recover the gold from an organization like INTERPOL. We will have to beg for protection.”  
  
A scoff. “Maybe for you guys, but that’s not the situation.” Lovino paused, waited, until he had ensnared the attention of the four idiots in the room. “How well do you know the crime families in Italy?”  
  
Erzsébet responded quickly. “Is this about Feliciano? We know he’s related to Romolo Vargas, if that’s what you’re getting at. But if we work quickly enough, we should be out of the country before the Vargas family takes notice. Are they teaming up with Alfred?”  
  
“Romolo Vargas is a senile old man.” That was an interesting outburst. Even Eduard could tell there was something personal behind it. “And he’s the least of your problems right now. Have any of you ever heard of the Bianchi?”  
  
Francis and Eduard both nodded. “The name sounds familiar; I think they’ve made several donations to one of my father’s galleries.”  
  
Eduard’s reply was a little more disheartening. “They tried to beat… my employer’s hold on the recreational drug market in Russia. It was an overconfident move. I’ve heard that they’ve since returned to primarily clashing with other crime groups in Italy. Their only international movement now is an established art smuggling ring.”  
  
Romano stared. “Are you an encyclopedia or what?”  
  
“If only.” Then he wouldn’t have needed to outsource for information.  
  
“Well, whatever. The Bianchi picked up your little friend Alfred and all the gold he had.”  
  
“How do you know that?”  
  
Romano waved his phone in Francis’s face. “Guess.” Brat.  
  
“The question, now, is do you guys have what it takes to steal from the Mafia?”  
  
Tryggvi resumed chewing on his pen. “We’ve sort of already done that. Once.”  
  
Romano looked genuinely surprised. “When?”  
  
Francis sneered. “The heist that got us into this mess: when we robbed Veneziano.”  
  
Lovino recalled his brother’s pantsless painting adventures. He recalled the pitch of Feliciano’s voice the last time Lovino had heard him screaming after someone had been stupid enough to try and take a shot at him. “ _Veneziano_ is as far from the Mafia as it gets.”  
  
“No… that would be his brother, wouldn’t it.” Erzsébet stared at the broken pieces of plastic in her hands, but her thoughts rested somewhere else entirely. “I remember now. His brother’s protectiveness erred on the side of excessive violence, but I had just assumed that was because he was rich and could buy big guns.”  
  
Romano blinked. “Yeah. His brother’s a criminal alright.”  
  
“Regardless,” Eduard sighed, “it’s not a matter of courage or ability. Perhaps given enough time and preparation we could have pulled off a job against the Bianchi family. But they will be expecting us and our resources are sadly lacking.”  
  
“Are they expecting us?” Tryggvi didn’t like the thought of letting so much money wash away.  
  
“No. They’re too busy torturing your friend.”  
  
A collective “what?!” pierced the air.  
  
“You heard me. I told you the Bianchi picked him up; it’s not like they did that to make daisy chains with him. I don’t really know _why_ , I just know that they’re probably beating the shit out of him as we speak.”  
  
They all looked worried. Amateurs. Don’t get attached to people who could stab you in the back. That was the first rule in this business, and Lovino Vargas was fully prepared to exploit it. “So what are you going to do?”  
  
“Alfred’s saved all of our lives. At least once.” Lovino had expected Erzsébet to be the one to jump to Alfred’s defense; she seemed the most sentimental. But Tryggvi had spoken up first, quietly. He refused to make eye contact with any of the others. _One down_.  
  
“Probably on orders.” Erzsébet was showing surprising reluctance. “So he could keep watching us.”  
  
Francis added his own two cents. “But why us? We’ve kept our operations on a fairly low scale…”  
  
Now they were plain ignoring him. Lovino could deal with that. He just wished they would hurry the fuck up so he could give them more of Lotte’s information. God knew he had enough problems waiting for him back at the apartment.   
  
Tryggvi kept his head down. From Lovino’s vantage point, it looked like he was talking to the cushions on the sofa. “Alfred joined from the beginning, didn’t he? He couldn’t have been assigned to infiltrate us before we had even taken anything.” Was the kid implying that Lovino had made a mistake?  
  
Eduard felt ill. It showed. “No…” his voice was soft because his throat felt thick. “No he couldn’t have.” A heartbeat later he continued speaking. That time for long enough for Lovino to register the guilt splashed across Eduard’s face. _His fault, huh? Wonder what he does that INTERPOL cares about_. “…If you have any more information for us, Romano, now would be the time to share it. I think… yes, just give me one more night and I should be able to figure something out. The Bianchi can’t be that bad. We won’t have to grovel to Braginski after all.”  
  
Tryggvi finally looked Eduard in the eyes. “And Alfred?”

“Should we come across Alfred in our search for the gold…” Smiling Alfred, laughing Alfred, tinkering Alfred, traitor Alfred. “We will deal with that when it happens.”  
  
Lovino waited for Francis to protest, like he did with _all_ of Lovino’s suggestions dammit. When no one else spoke, Lovino took it as a victory. _Four down_. Finally, now they could start working on getting Feliciano’s money back. And Lovino could start his own plans for getting Feliciano back. Lotte hadn’t told him how, but somehow Lovino’s little brother had gotten himself kidnapped by the very same group that had lifted his gold. If even a hair on Feliciano’s empty head was out of place…  
  
\- - - - -  
  
The group soon retired to the kitchen.  
  
But Tryggvi looked queasy. “I’m getting a bad feeling.”  
  
Romano scoffed. “Wimping out now?”

“No,” he looked to Francis, “I’m getting _that_ feeling.”  
  
Francis had learned to trust Tryggvi’s instincts; they had usually paid off in the form of entertainment. Now they were paying off by warning Francis of another disturbance to the group’s plans. “You won’t travel alone then, until we finish this job. And here,” he pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Take as many bills as you need. What’s there should buy you a few more days, should you meet him.”  
  
“He already knows where I am.”  
  
“You can’t know that for sure, my dear.” But Francis didn’t quite believe that.  
  
Eduard had no idea what was going on. Erzsébet did, if only because of that one month when the group had first started working together, when she had felt no guilt and no shame in monitoring her fellow thieves. “We’ll make our plans so you can stick with me, Tryggvi. You’ll definitely be safe that way!”  
  
Romano frowned. “How come?”  
  
Erzsébet smiled and flexed her arm. “You’ll see!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was the most embarrassing ringtone I could think of. And Romano’s ‘Lovino’ when he’s in his own POV. Only 10 more parts to go ( _and the last two are kind of cheating_ ).


	28. One Cannot Measure Love. Other Things, However…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> INTERPOL searches the scene of the crime for clues. Back at Antonio's apartment, Lovino is determined to get some rest and not think about what's going on. But Antonio is a man on a mission. A _love_ mission.

When they’d first arrived on the scene, Gilbert hadn’t been impressed. Granted, he wasn’t supposed to be there at all, as it wasn’t his case. But he and Alfred were buddies ( _sort of_ ), and he and Arthur were buddies ( _once Arthur’d had a few_ ). And buddies helped other buddies find out where their mutual buddies could have wandered off to. Gilbert really hoped Alfred hadn’t been kidnapped again. Arthur didn’t do well when anything happened to his partners.  
  
The small stretch of canal had already been taped off, much to the consternation of everyone who wasn’t law enforcement. Gilbert ignored the curious and angry looks and hopped over the makeshift barriers the Venetian police had constructed. “Cool it, McKirkland. He’s probably around here somewhere.”  
  
Arthur, for his part, carefully slipped underneath the tape. “Wanker. If he _was_ I think they would have told us by now.”  
  
There didn’t seem to be anything special about the scene at first glance. Mostly because there wasn’t. It wasn’t until the head officer carefully motioned the two INTERPOL officers over to a little nook hidden from the public’s view that they realized that there was anything to see. In a dramatic gesture ( _that Arthur resented on principle_ ), the officer took hold of a mound of tarp and flung it behind him ( _he looked sheepish at the resulting splash_ ), revealing a battered hunk of metal.  
  
No.   
  
A robot.  
  
Arthur had a bad feeling, because the robot looked very familiar. Too familiar. He walked up to it and tapped twice on the back of the robot’s neck. Two seconds later, a buzzing noise followed by the robot’s eyes lighting up signaled that Arthur had successfully turned it on. Oh yes, Arthur Kirkland was a technological _genius_.  
  
But the synthetic greeting that followed confirmed Arthur Kirkland’s worst fears. “Limey.” This was Tony. Alfred’s Tony.  
  
Arthur glanced at Gilbert out of the corner of his eye. “Alfred programmed it to do that. You know Alfred and his jokes…”  
  
Gilbert was already snickering. “Nah, I think the AI is just that good.” He moved to give the robot a high-5. “Tony! It’s been months! How’re you doing? Where’s Al?”  
  
Arthur sneered and stepped back. “You only like the thing because Alfred let you program your own nickname in its memory.”  
  
“Lies!” burst through the air before Arthur could even finish his sentence. “It’s like I said. The AI is awesome enough to know that I am ‘Awesome’!”  
  
“Awesome.” The robot swiveled its head, but without its usual grace. “Where is Alfred?”  
  
“We asked first.” He was having a conversation with a robot. He was _sober_ and Arthur was having a conversation with a robot.  
  
“Where is Alfred?”  
  
“Oh _now_ you decide to have a small vocabulary, you bloody ungrateful wretch…” He cut himself off before he could say anything too unseemly. Arthur had INTERPOL’s reputation to uphold, and the Italian police officers ( _while pretending not to listen in_ ) were looking at him strangely.  
  
Before his co-worker could get into another fight with Tony, Gilbert got bored. So he decided to do things the quick way. “Hey Tony? I’m gonna shut you off and take a look at the stuff your cameras saved before we got here.”  
  
Wait. He could do that? No matter. Arthur was still technologically savvy, even though he didn’t really understand what Gilbert was talking about.   
  
“That is acceptable. Do not screw with my brains, Awesome, or else I will upload the Special Blackmail to the internet.” Gilbert cackled. How cute: Al had taught the thing some new phrases. However, he knew better. Alfred F. Jones couldn’t blackmail Gilbert Beilschmidt with anything, because Gilbert Beilschmidt was always cool, collected, and utterly _amazing_.  
  
Just in case, he whispered “I’ll buy you some video games when this is all over if you promise to delete anything that has to do with the time I got nostalgic and curled up crying underneath the drinks table for three hours” in the direction of Tony’s sensors. College had taught Gilbert to cover his bases. Not that any of that had actually ever happened.   
  
Two seconds later, Tony was powered down, and Gilbert was taking apart the casing that covered ‘his’ brains.  
  
Arthur had already stepped back to let Gilbert have more room to work. “Wait. So the thing takes videos?”  
  
Gilbert scoffed. “How do you think any of us ever get pictures and video of the Holiday parties? You _know_ your brother makes everybody get screened for recording devices at the door. For security, or something lame like that.”  
  
Arthur refrained from clarifying that it was only _Gilbert_ who had to be checked by security before being let into any of the department-sponsored parties. One too many spiked punchbowls and recording devices in the women’s restroom had seen to that. “I’ve never seen this… _Tony_ at any of those functions.”

“You don’t see anything after 9, McKirkland. You’re too far gone. And Jones tells Tony to hide. _Duh_.” Even Gilbert could work that one out on his own. He paused in fiddling with the inner workings of the robot, in order to tap his pointer finger against Tony’s eyes. “These are the lenses that captured ‘Table Dance, New York Office, 2006’ in High Definition, for the world to see.”  
  
Bugger. Arthur _knew_ Alfred had been behind that mass email, dammit! He’d said he didn’t know a thing about it, but was Alfred ever going to get it when… when… when Arthur found out what had happened to him. It was difficult to work up a good indignation when Alfred F. Jones had a very good track record of being in a tight spot whenever he didn’t show up for a meet.  
  
Gilbert continued talking while he continued fiddling with Tony, hooking the robot up to his phone. “I don’t know how Alfred got the pictures from the last party, though. He wouldn’t tell _me_ , not even after I taught him how to curse in Hungarian.” After pressing a few buttons on his phone, Gilbert was finally done. Maybe it took a little more time for him than it would have for Alfred, but that didn’t mean that Gilbert wasn’t still a badass spy. “Alright, look at the screen, Sub-Agent. And tell me what you see.”  
  
Arthur took the phone from his colleague’s hands. “Why can’t we both look?”  
  
“Because then I’d have to stand next to you. I might catch your English stuffiness.” It was no fun when Arthur didn’t react with anger. Gilbert should have expected the misty eyes, though, since Alfred usually used that insult the most.  
  
“You’re jonesing for J—”  
  
“Finish that sentence and the phone goes into the canal.”  
  
Gilbert didn’t say another word. Arthur didn’t need to know that was because he didn’t want to lose all the pictures of adorable kittens he’d downloaded onto his phone. He also didn’t need to know that Jones’s rapid ascent to Special Agent after being practically picked off the street by Sub-Sub-Agent Kirkland had been the main topic of office gossip for _years_. Or that Gilbert had capitalized upon it in the form of betting pools for just as long.  
  
The video began to play on Gilbert’s phone. For a few moments the only sound was the light background hum of a Sunday afternoon in Venice. “Can you speed this up? It’s just dark… wait, stop! Now there’s Alfred… what in the world is he doing? Oh, never mind. He was stretching… You can speed it up again… nothing interesting… there’s Alfred again… wait a second, what’s this? Stop! Stop the video!”  
  
Gilbert stopped it. “What is it?”  
  
“Look.”  
  
Gilbert took his phone back from Arthur’s sweaty hands and played back the last few seconds of video. There was Alfred. There was Alfred stuffing gold into Tony’s midsection? There was Alfred shoving Tony over the side of the deck? There were strangers shoving Alfred into a strange boat?  
  
Wait.  
  
He skimmed back a few frames and paused the video. The face on the screen _wasn’t_ so strange, because it had been one of the several faces Gilbert had been staring at for months. On the photographs clipped to his case files.  
  
Weird.  
  
“You’re not going to like this McKirkland… you might want to prepare your pansy self for a fainting episode.”  
  
The only reason Arthur didn’t respond by smacking Gilbert upside the head was because the Italians were watching. And Gilbert was still too close to _that robot_. “Spit it out, man.”  
  
“You know how I’ve been assigned to the Italian art smuggling case…?”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Lovino didn’t think about how he was supposed to get back into Antonio’s apartment until after he had sneaked into the main building, tramped up the stairs, and approached Antonio’s door. He didn’t have a key and he was too tired to bother picking the lock. Out of laziness, Lovino tried the doorknob… which turned smoothly and easily, allowing him inside. The idiot had left it unlocked? Moron. _Anyone_ could get into a cheap building like this!  
  
The main room was dim when Lovino entered it. He would have turned on the lights, but more pressing matters demanded his attention. Like the numerous candles that bathed the room in soft, flickering light. Or the deep red tablecloth that matched the long-stemmed roses sitting in the vase on top of the table. Or the half-dressed man sitting at the table, tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth, mending a pair of pants.  
  
Lovino pondered what to criticize first. He decided on everything. “What the hell is this?” He pointed to the table.  
  
Antonio looked up from his needlework. “Lovi! You’re back!”  
  
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”  
  
His open shirt was just a shade darker than the flowers. “You mean the roses?” That blush was on its way to making the scene a full study of the color red. “I would have gotten you 21, but I don’t have all that much money… so I got 3 instead!”  
  
Why? “Red roses?”  
  
Antonio stood, allowing the pants he had been fixing to fall to the floor. “Oh, no! They’re not red Lovi, they’re _burgundy_. Burgundy roses.” He smiled, obviously proud of himself.  
  
People didn’t give Lovino Vargas ( _red_ ) burgundy roses. He gave plenty of red roses to the women who called on him; roses were an appropriately romantic flower. But no one had ever given Lovino a rose. Until now. “S-stop getting me flowers you stupid fucking moron! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” That question that had been floating around in Lovino’s mind the entire day. What _was_ he doing with Antonio?  
  
“But you blushed when I showed the others to you; I thought that meant you liked getting flowers. And these are really special.” Antonio seemed to take Lovino’s protests into consideration. “I could stop getting flowers if you really wanted me to. Do you really want me to?”  
  
“Of course!” ( _Of course not!_ )  
  
“But there, you did it again! That blush is so _cuuute_ , Lovi.”  
  
“Shut up! It’s not a blush, I’m just fucking angry at you!” ( _I blush around you because you make me feel appreciated and special and nervous, you bastard. Why haven’t you figured that out?_ )  
  
Antonio moved closer, still smiling. Lovino realized, as he was relieved of his bag of clothes and papers, that Antonio’s tone hadn’t been disheartened. It hadn’t been sad. In fact, it had been fairly confident. Teasing.  
  
Lovino was dealing with an equal now. And _shit_ if that didn’t secretly make his breath hitch in anticipation. Until Antonio ruined it all by proving that despite a newfound easiness, he was still his same stupid self.  
  
“I also went to the store so we would be more prepared this time!”  
  
What.  
  
“Let’s see,” Antonio had exchanged Lovino’s duffel for a smaller, cloth bag while Lovino had stood in the main room, wondering at Antonio’s change in demeanor. Back at the dinner table, Antonio began digging through the bag, pulling out items as he listed them off. “I got 3 kinds of lube– but none of them are flavored, so if you wanted that then I’ll have to go out for more. And I got 4 different kinds of condoms, since I’m out and you only had 1 in your wallet, I think…” Antonio took a little black box from the bag and set it next to the substantial pile of _things_ he had bought. “These should be good to start with!”   
  
Now he was waving around a red box. It had a little drawing on the cover, but Lovino was too busy being mortified to figure out what it depicted. However, for all that Lovino wanted to curl up and die, he refused to let Antonio know that he was embarrassed. He was a man! He was Italian! He was not intimidated by sex! He’d probably had sex with more women than Antonio would ever dream of… which probably wasn’t even hyperbole, come to think. Since Antonio was gay. For men.   
  
For him.   
  
_With_ him.  
  
Goddammit.  
  
“…this kind might be a little snug on you, Lovi. I wasn’t exactly sure, but I didn’t want to accidentally only buy ones that were too big.” Antonio finally ( _finally_ ) finished setting down his boxes and bottles and packets and _kits_ and grinned at Lovino from across the room. “Then I’d have to go out to the store again and we’d lose time!”  
  
What.  
  
 _What._  
  
First things first. “How the hell do you know—”Lovino realized exactly what he was shouting and paused for a split second before deciding that Antonio’s neighbors could just fucking deal with it. “The fuck do you know what size I need?!”  
  
The grin became sheepish. It was good to know Antonio still had an iota of shame left in his perverted body. “It’s not like you didn’t have one last night… although I couldn’t find it later, and somehow the wrapper got thrown out the window with your pants! So I just kinda guesstimated.” Antonio was pointing at his mouth. Why was Antonio pointing at his mouth oh shit _no_ shit, really? What, had the idiot swallowed a tape measure for comparison? “I mean, I guess it just might be wishful thinking, but I don’t think so. It felt—”  
  
“Shut up. Now.”

“Lovi?”

“Why are you doing this?” That question was the only thought Lovino could hold on to.  
  
“Patching up my pants?” Antonio picked them up for emphasis. “They got a tear in them somehow, although I really don’t remember ripping the zipper this badly.” That was right, Lovino had really done a number on those slacks earlier in the day… No!  
  
“Not your pants, stupid, why are you… you… this. Why are you doing all of _this_.” He moved his left hand out in a sweeping gesture that was supposed to include the nice tablecloth, roses and romantic mood in general. His frustration, however, just made it look like he was waving very angrily.  
  
“Oh. Oh! You mean dinner and the condoms and the flowers?”  
  
“ _Yes_.”  
  
Antonio set his pants down over the chair he had been sitting in and leaned against the table. Only wearing an open shirt and boxers, he looked like some sort of trashy ( _very effective_ ) advertisement. “I’m trying to get you to fall in love with me, Lovi. I thought that was obvious!”  
  
Lovino spluttered. “Wh-why would you try to do something like that?”

“Because I love you. And love’s a whole lot better when two people do it together.” They shared a look. Entirely because their thoughts had converged on something else that was much better when done by two people.  
  
“I—you— it’s not going to work.” ( _It already has, dumbass._ )  
  
“Nothing you say will make me give up, Lovi.” Antonio turned his back to Lovino and began to fiddle with one of the roses. “You said my name last night, lots of times. At first I wasn’t sure, and then I thought I might have made it up, but I remember it now. And it’s true.” Lovino hung on his every word. There was something wrong with this. “I think I have a chance.”  
  
Force of habit made Lovino reply “You don’t.”  
  
The look Antonio gave him was disappointed, true, but it was also cautious. Fuck, was he catching on? What was Lovino supposed to do if Antonio started figuring out that what Lovino said wasn’t always what he meant?  
  
Flustered, Lovino rushed over to the other side of the table and sat down. “Where’s my food?” He needed a distraction right now. And he was a little hungry.  
  
Antonio’s determined mood was broken again. “You’re a little early… I didn’t plan on you getting back from whatever it is that you’re doing until maybe 9, that’s why I don’t have any pants on.” Bastard had to bring Lovino’s attention back to that again.  
  
“I finished early.” More like Eduard had had the genius’s version of a fit and had kicked everyone else out so that he could ‘think properly.’ Lovino hadn’t questioned anything that let him go hom— that let him leave early.  
  
“Then everything’s alright again? Where’s Feliciano?”  
  
He just _had_ to hit the tender spots. “…it isn’t time yet.”   
  
“Lovi?”  
  
Dodge, he needed to dodge these questions. Maybe he’d tell Antonio later. Fine. He _would_ tell Antonio later, because he needed Antonio’s help. “Dinner. Now. And it better not be some restaurant shit this time.”  
  
The concerned look was something Lovino could dodge easily. But Antonio’s expression quickly fixed itself back into a grin. “No, I made it myself. It’s more romantic this way!”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Lovino Vargas, to Antonio’s delight, was a clingy sleeper. Usually Antonio slept late when he didn’t have work, and usually Lovino woke early, for whatever reason. But this morning, something had awoken Antonio before his bedmate. That something was the crushing grip of Lovino’s arms around Antonio’s torso.  
  
So what if he was having a hard time breathing right now? Antonio didn’t need to breathe all that often; it was a small price to pay for having a sleeping Lovi holding him, close, legs entwined and face pressed into Antonio’s neck. Antonio wished he could wake up like this every day ( _fine, he also wished he could breathe freely_ ).  
  
He took a moment to hold Lovino a little closer. To run his free hand through Lovino’s adorable bed hair. To just _stare_ at Lovino without feeling like an intruder ( _the one who woke up first won the right to stare at their lover, telenovelas and romance novels had taught him this!_ ). Unfortunately, Lovino woke up midway through Antonio’s careful appreciation. And the first thing he did ( _after blinking blearily, and yawning a little, and scowling, and…_ ) was remove his arms from Antonio and roll over to the other side of the bed.  
  
Antonio didn’t let that discourage him. Maybe Lovi didn’t like cuddling as much in the morning, or when he was awake. Or maybe Lovi was preparing to dive into another bout of angry denial. Antonio felt that last one was a little bit more likely, somehow, so he decided to stop any rejections from happening by scooting over and joining Lovino on the other side of the bed. There was only so much farther that Lovino could go before he was falling onto the floor…  
  
“Morning Lovi.”  
  
The grunted response was worlds better than Lovino freaking out again or flailing. Antonio was so close at this point that if Lovi swung one of his arms at him, the blow might actually connect. After a little bit of thought, Antonio encased Lovino in a good morning hug; not only for protection, but also so he could get a good snuggle in before they had to get up. He really hated having to get up before noon when he didn’t have work. But Lovino had a job to do, and staying in bed, alone and sticky, wasn’t particularly enjoyable.  
  
Lovino’s voice broke through the still morning. “You said you would do anything for me?”  
  
No hesitation. “Yes.”  
  
“Then do exactly as I’m about to tell you and don’t ask questions.”  
  
Again, no hesitation. “No.”  
  
That got Lovino to roll over as quickly as he could, what with Antonio’s arms still around him. “What?!”

“I’m not some thug you can order around, Lovi. Well, I guess you can order me around if you want, and if it’s like last night then that’s _really_ nice…” Antonio took a moment to indulge in the memory and then recollect himself, “but don’t expect that I’m going to do whatever you say just because.” Lovino looked at him like Antonio had just said he’d decided to go follow someone else around. Antonio moved to clarify himself. “I’m with you because I want to be.”  
  
Lovino’s eyes widened as he finally understood what Antonio was trying to say. “You’re giving me a relationship speech.”  
  
Antonio Fernandez Carriedo had selective hearing. It was a trait he was well known for. “You admitted we’re in a relationship!”  
  
“I did not!”  
  
“You did!” And that sort of achievement deserved a kiss, in Antonio’s opinion. In fact, _he_ still had one coming from his own declaration the morning before.  
  
So he gave Lovino two.  
  
“You’re such a— fine. We’ll do this your way.” Antonio could look stern when he felt like it. And at the moment he felt like it. “I mean, we’ll do this together and we’ll talk about our decisions and shit.” It was a start. A good start. Antonio’s heart couldn’t contain how much raw joy he felt now that he and Lovino had _something_ together. A something that was verging very quickly on a romantic relationship that both parties admitted to freely.  
  
“That wasn’t so bad, was it Lovi?”  
  
Even with the tan of his skin, Lovino’s blush was prominent against the white sheets. “Don’t push your luck.”  
  
They had gotten so much closer in the last two days… Antonio gathered every ounce of courage he had and tried something new. “Can I push yours?”  
  
Was… was that an innuendo? Was Antonio capable of those? Was Lovino reacting to it?! ( _Yes_ )  
  
“N-no! No! There will be no pushing!” But Lovino didn’t move away, so Antonio counted it as a victory for his side anyway.  
  
“That’s okay.” He waited until Lovino began to sigh in relief before saying “I can wait.” Antonio was a sneaky man.  
  
“Fuck off.” Lovino thought the better of expanding on those sentiments, because Antonio looked prepared to take them literally. And it was time to get down to business, whether he liked it or not. “I need you to pick Feliciano up and keep him safe for me.”  
  
 _That_ was certainly a change in conversation. By all rights, Antonio should have marveled at the speed with which Lovino adjusted to sharing his greatest secrets and plans. But he didn’t. “What will you be doing, Lovi?”  
  
“Restoring his honor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm. This got long fast. The USTy scene between Lovino and Antonio may contain many implausibilities, but I kept it as it is ‘cause it’s funny. For the same reason, Lovino gets an XL dick. Purely for the jokes. So mature am I. And now I wonder (for science, mind you) if it’s possible to accurately use one’s mouth/throat to measure things ( _*throat noise* “Yep, this one feels like a size 7.” “…they don’t size like that Mr. America.” *more throat noise* “No, no, I know my socks, and this is certainly a size 7.”_ ). Hm. [A short expansion on those last few lines, which turned into more of a contemplative/fluffy AmeriLiet than anything can be found on the kink meme [here](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/11813.html?thread=39346725#t39346725).]
> 
> Also: Stuff’s supposed to get done next time, which means not much probably will.  
> Double Also: although it may appear as though I’ve forgotten people, everybody’s going to get their ending at some point [except Canada: sorry Matt, you were just a cameo]. It might not be happy or it might be disgustingly mushy ( _ahem_ ), but it’ll happen.)


	29. Law?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the players converge on the Bianchi mansion, bringing together old friends and new enemies.

_“And you, Romano, you will naturally accompany Erzsébet and Tryggvi down into the Bianchi vault.”_  
  
That suited Lovino just fine.  
  
“Wait, why are we putting our weakest link closest to the prize?”  


 _“Calm down, Francis. I’m going to be there this time; if Romano tries to pull anything funny, I’ll drop him like a rock. I promise.” She pulled on one of the ends of Romano’s scarf. “But that’s not going to happen, now is it?”  
  
“Of course not.” Lovino was very good at lying to women. That wasn’t something he had to blame his grandfather for; the old man claimed the credit all on his own.  
  
“Then Francis, I believe it is time for you to go.” Eduard waved from his position surrounded by computers in the bottom of the boat. “Good luck.”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
_ For the first time, Francis Bonnefoy was appearing to a mark as… Francis Bonnefoy. It was a strange feeling; he was so used to being other people that he’d spent a full twenty minutes preparing motivations for this newest character… before he’d realized that this newest character was _himself_.  
  
As Francis’s father was a legitimate business partner of the Bianchi family ( _he’d have to pass details of their less scrupulous work on to one of his father’s secretaries somehow. They would be certain to use the information properly_ ), the son had reason to stop by the Bianchi mansion. That Francis was a Bonnefoy made it even better; his family was well known for being quite rich and quite strange. He wouldn’t put it past his own father to call upon partners unannounced.  
  
It was Francis’s job to distract the household. He would enter the premises from the main door, be greeted with tight smiles that indulged his money and connections if nothing else, and would muster every ounce of disapproval he could should his host be alerted to something going wrong. Powerful men detested appearing weak in front of their peers. And Francis wasn’t so foolish as to think their slapdash plan would go off without a hitch.  
  
When things went wrong, as they inevitably would, Francis would be there in the middle of it all, trying to make the mess bigger for the Bianchi family as they worked to thwart all of Eduard’s plans.  
  
This was getting more tiresome than exciting.  
  
But it had to be done.  
  
Francis took a deep breath and turned down the last side street that would lead him to his destination… only to come face-to-face with one of his best friends. Someone he hadn’t heard from in years. “A-antonio?”  
  
Antonio spun around from where he’d been tapping the stones of the nearest wall. He didn’t pause a second before exclaiming “Oh! Hi Francis! Wow, it’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”  
  
“What are you doing here?” the last he’d heard, Antonio had been wandering through Europe aimlessly after dropping out of school. Francis had tried to offer some of his family’s assistance to his friend, but Antonio wouldn’t have any of it. And so Francis had continued on to university and Antonio had disappeared. Until this afternoon. Why this afternoon?  
  
Now Antonio was shaking his hand, over exuberant, just like he’d been when they had still been teenagers. “I’m sorry that I don’t have much time to talk now.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got something that I’m supposed to be doing. But maybe we can get a drink later on…?”  
  
Francis felt outside of himself. Partially because Antonio looked so much like he had before, and partially because he was chattering away rapidly in a language that Francis didn’t speak well. “Certainly. A drink sounds wonderful.” And then a thought struck him. “Do you know if Gilbert is around here somewhere…? A coincidence like that would be improbable, but I wouldn’t put it past him.”  
  
Antonio scratched his head and seemed to think about it. “Wasn’t Gil sent off to Berlin by his father? For history school or something?”

“Law.”

“Law?”  
  
Antonio Fernandez Carriedo and Francis Bonnefoy stared at each other, faces perfectly composed. But they couldn’t help it for long. Both started laughing. Genuine, explosive laughs, because really? Law? _Gilbert_? That was like giving the fox its own door to the henhouse.  
  
“So,” Antonio fought back the last of his laughter. When he spoke again, his words were in blessed French. “So when was he expelled? A few weeks? A month?”

“Never.” Francis reached into the back of his mind. “Yes, I’m fairly sure he was never expelled. If he was, he never said anything about it.” At least not before he’d stopped writing.  
  
Antonio crossed his arms and sighed. “It’s been way too long. We really should all go out sometime again.”  
  
Francis agreed, but another, more pressing thought jumped into his mouth before he could voice anything else. “Have you stayed in this area long? I didn’t know you knew Italian.”  
  
“I’m fluent in it now!” Maybe some things _had_ changed. Francis knew his friend was intelligent, but he couldn’t escape the absurdity of the moment: that two long-separated friends were having their reunion after so many years on a side street in Venice. Bilingually.  
  
“I’m jealous. I only know bits and phrases.” The important phrases, like ‘ _I would like a cappuccino_ ’ or ‘ _Where is the toilet?_ ’ or even ‘ _How much for a night?_ ’  
  
Antonio began babbling in Italian again. “Then I’ll have to teach you sometime! You can pay me back in alcohol.” Francis grinned a small little grin. He understood Antonio’s second statement perfectly. It was an important phrase, after all.  
  
“I may take you up on that, my friend.”  
  
He noticed Antonio checking his watch again, and was reminded of his own engagements. But it had been over a _decade_ since he’d seen Antonio last. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt anything. “Do you live in this neighborhood?” It would explain how he’d acquired such a nice suit; not as nice as Francis’s own, definitely not. But it was a far more expensive-looking piece of clothing than Francis thought he’d ever see his friend wearing.  
  
Antonio waved the question off and began ruining the suit that Francis had been appreciating all in the same moment. He took off the jacket, and tied it around his waist, like a schoolboy. He rolled up his sleeves, and Francis felt sorry for the iron that would have to tackle _that_ mess later on. “Oh, no. I’m here doing a favor for someone. You wouldn’t know him.”   
  
“Oh?”  
  
“He’s my boyfriend. I think.” Antonio looked extremely satisfied with himself.  
  
Francis blinked. And then he blinked again. “…I always thought you were straight.”  
  
Antonio’s head came out of the clouds long enough to process what Francis had said. “You did?”  
  
“Well you _know_. You were always at football practice and spending time outside of class with the girls, and you never seemed to have the same… attachments. As Gilbert and I had.” He laughed. “In fact, remember when Gilbert didn’t speak to you for over a week?”  
  
Antonio scrunched up his face in concentration. Gilbert hadn’t refused to speak with him often: not speaking was difficult for Gil. But there was _one_ time that Antonio could think of… “I thought that was because I took the last pudding at lunch and wouldn’t share it with him.” He’d been hungry. Was that such a crime?  
  
Trust Antonio to remember events that had to do with food, but not that his best friend couldn’t understand him when he spoke in Italian. “That might have been part of it, but if you also remember, that was the middle of the whole letter debacle, when he—”  
  
Letter debacle… Gilbert… love letters! “I remember that _now_. You should have said about the flowers earlier. So he thought I didn’t like him because he had a crush on—”  
  
“Precisely.”  
  
“Really?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“But we were friends! I wouldn’t do something like that!” Antonio had to judge people a lot in his job ( _does he look suspicious does he look like a threat should I hit him now?_ ), but he was really trying to cut back. If he’d judged Lovi, after all, he would have probably judged him incorrectly. And then he’d be miserable.  
  
“Those were insecure times, my friend.”  
  
“ _Weird_ … we should get doubly smashed sometime, then. Especially if Gil still thinks I don’t like him ‘cause of that!”

“I agree wholeheartedly.”  
  
The natural lull in the conversation wasn’t broken by Francis asking about Antonio’s time in Italy or Antonio asking what Francis’s attachments had been. Instead, both men’s pants started buzzing. Tinny ringtones followed shortly.  
  
“Sorry, I have to take this.” “Just a second, Francis.”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Eduard’s voice was at its most terse. “Where are you?”  
  
Good things never lasted, did they? “Only a minor delay. I met an old acquaintance on the road. I’ll be there shortly.”  
  
“You’d better.”  
  
 _Click._  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Lovi’s voice tried to hide its concern in terseness. It was adorable. “Well?”  
  
“Sorry Lovi, I got a little sidetracked…”  
  
His voice was like a promise. A promise of death. “And _what_ was so important?”  
  
Good things never lasted, did they? “Nothing! Sorry! I’ll say ‘bye to Francis right away and be up in a second!” Antonio wondered if it would be appropriate to try and send a kiss through the phone, but Francis was there. Lovi might get embarrassed.  
  
 _Click._  
  
\- - - - -  
  
They said it at the same time, although not in the same language ( _Eduard knew precious little French and Lovino refused to converse in anything but Italian except for when he was feeling his most benevolent_ ). “I’ve got to go.”  
  
Antonio moved first. “It was nice seeing you again! You should give me a call sometime!” He went back to the stones he had been tapping earlier, and, satisfied with their strength, began scaling the wall.   
  
Francis watched, openmouthed, as his old friend disappeared into the first window he came across. Antonio had always been… special. Yes. It was good seeing him again. Except. Except he had just disappeared again, and Francis didn’t know his phone number. Francis prided himself on knowing every number he could ever want and more, but the only number he _needed_ right now was the one he didn’t know.  
  
He resumed his walk toward the Bianchi’s front gates. Life could be cruel, but Francis was getting a second chance to fix things, today. Once this heist was done, he could find Antonio again. And Gilbert. And they would go out and make fools of themselves _together_ , because that was just what they did.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Lovino snapped his phone shut and stared at it. Antonio had said Francis. What were the chances it was the same Francis that Lovino had met on Saturday morning? With Antonio… too fucking good. Shit. More shit. Fuck.  
  
“Are you alright over there, Romano?” Erzsébet’s voice was genuinely concerned. That was bad; she shouldn’t be thinking about him any more than she had to. He tried to make himself look as disaffected as possible before he replied.  
  
“Yeah.” Lovino had told Erzsébet and Tryggvi that he’d needed to make a call too, once Tryggvi had found the right door in the maze of disgusting tunnels they’d been wandering in. Wandering in for over an _hour_.  
  
“Alright then…” She didn’t seem convinced. But she didn’t press it so Lovino hoped she’d passed it off as a bout of teenage angst ( _he refused to accept that it was more likely that she’d passed it off as homoerotic tension with whomever he had called_ ). “Eduard says Francis is almost in position now. In a minute or two we can enter the mansion. Tryggvi?”  
  
Tryggvi was sitting on a low, dusty shelf. He was shaking. “I’m fine.”  
  
“She didn’t ask if you were or you weren’t.” Goddammit, if Tryggvi screwed this up he’d have _much_ bigger problems to worry about than some mystery stalker. Lovino could ensure that.  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
Erzsébet swatted Romano upside the head and only felt a little strange in doing so ( _how many times had she reproached Alfred in the same way…?_ ). “Do you need to rest? Francis will probably take his own sweet time. We don’t have to leave immediately if you aren’t feeling well.”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
“What’s 2 + 2?” Had Romano snapped? What did math have to do with anything right now?  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
Oh. Erzsébet took in Romano’s raised eyebrows and Tryggvi’s increased shaking. Oh. This wasn’t good. “ **Pull yourself together man!** ”  
  
 _That_ pulled Tryggvi out of it. “What?”  
  
“Pull yourself together!” Erzsébet stamped her foot against the floor, bathing the three thieves in a shower of dust. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, remember?” She pulled a short, thick wrench out of her back pocket and slapped it in her left hand. “He’d have to go through _me_ first. And I haven’t lost a fight since I was 14.”  
  
Lovino reminded himself never to make Erzsébet angry. Ever. “Great. You’ll do all the fighting. Let’s get going.”  
  
Tryggvi shook his head and unfolded himself from his perch. “Okay. I’ll show you guys the way. But I won’t know where I’m going once we’re inside.” He fiddled with the thick leather wallet in his pocket and remembered to breathe. Once he was done with this job… enough was enough. He would _beg_ Francis if he had to. Or cry in front of Erzsébet. Anything to get _someone_ to help him stop the Dane from coming after him.  
  
“I know where we’re supposed to go once we get inside.” Romano had his hands in his pockets and if the lighting hadn’t been so bad then Tryggvi might have said that Romano was actually scowling. The boy acted even younger than he said his age was, sometimes. It made Tryggvi suspicious. At least Romano had taken off the dumb sunglasses ( _sunglasses? In a tunnel?_ ).  
  
In fact, if the lighting was better, Tryggvi might have said something to Erzsébet about how Romano looked really familiar, actually. Kind of like how Veneziano looked on the tapes when he was focused on something. Especially when Erzsébet ruffled Romano’s hair… Nah.  
  
He was probably just seeing things.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
They were inside. Erzsébet took in the plush carpeting and dark wood paneling and hoped that she got to smash a bit of it up before they got their gold back. She needed to relieve some stress. After the failed robbery and her missed date and Francis’s constant bickering with Romano and Alfred’s betrayal, she _really_ needed to relieve some stress.  
  
Wait.  
  
 _Her missed date_.  
  
No! Drat it all, fuck it all, no! Erzsébet almost tripped over her own two feet and that nice, plush carpeting, as she realized that she’d stood Roderich up ( _and he’d seemed so nice. Charming. Cute_ ). And now she’d blown it all and she’d never see him again, because what were the chances of encountering a stranger like that twice? Not very good unless she went back to that square and waited for him there. He probably was a tourist, too. His accent hadn’t been native.  
  
Erzsébet knew they had to be quiet. But that didn’t stop her from promising herself that the first sleazy mafia man in a suit that they met was going to get a really big wrench up the side of his head. Free of charge.  
  
The three came to a crossroads. The hallway they were on appeared to go left, right and straight ahead before it twisted to the left again. Normally Erzsébet would suggest that they split up. But Tryggvi wasn’t feeling himself and Romano looked as flimsy as a leaf ( _he was the type to have a protector, she was certain of it. A protector with strong hands and a warm heart that would soften Romano’s apathetic outlook on life… and soften his muscles as they explored each other’s bodies as they prepared to…_ ).  
  
“You okay over there?”  
  
“Yes! Yes of course!” That was a close one. While not quite so angry as she had been only moments beforehand, Erzsébet still had a job to do. She had to focus. Focus. “Which way are we supposed to go?”  
  
“Right.” Good, Romano knew the way. Now they wouldn’t have to split up. “But I’m tired. I’ll wait here.”  
  
Oh no. No one was going to act suspicious on Erzsébet’s watch. “What? No! We go together. That way there’s less of a chance of you revealing yourself to be a traitorous rotten piece of filth.” So maybe she was still bitter about Alfred. But Alfred had been _Alfred_. He’d been her friend.  
  
“I’m not a ‘traitorous rotten piece of filth.’” He leaned back against the corridor wall and inclined his head to look at the ceiling. “I’m just tired.”  
  
Tryggvi looked first at Erzsébet, and then at Romano. “I think he’s just scared.”  
  
When Romano blushed his entire head went red. It was funny. “A-am not!”  
  
“Look, his palms are all sweaty.”  
  
Erzsébet’s right eye was twitching now, so Tryggvi stopped making fun of the new guy. He and Romano both stepped a little bit farther away from her, out of a shared sense of self-preservation. “You know what? Fine. In reality, I’m not one bit surprised. Give me all the directions after ‘go right,’ and then sit here. We’ll pick you up when we’re done.”  
  
Romano looked visibly relieved. Erzsébet would have had more sympathy, if she had the time. She got the location of the gold, and the approximate number of guards. She then walked away, Tryggvi following, without a second thought.  
  
Lovino watched her go. And smirked. Erzsébet was a nice girl, really, but family came first and he hadn’t _exactly_ been lying when he’d told her the directions to ‘the storeroom.’ There really _was_ a room full of valuables down the corridor to the right: that just wasn’t where the Bianchi bastards were keeping Feliciano’s money.  
  
Feliciano’s money was being kept down the hallway to the left.  
  
And to the left Lovino went, as soon as the other two got out of earshot. Right now, Antonio should be helping Feliciano escape, Francis should be sweet-talking the bastards upstairs and in a few moments, Erzsébet would be making a distraction of her own in the complete opposite direction. Lovino fiddled with the cell phones in his pocket and allowed himself to smirk. Things weren’t over yet, not by a longshot. But it was looking like the victor would rightfully be him.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
It ate away at him. Twisting and turning upon his insides, stopping his fingers from flowing effortlessly across the black and white keys of his beloved Steinway. Almost two days later, and Roderich Edelstein was still wracked with guilt.   
  
He had told the angel that he would meet her on Saturday afternoon… only to realize just as he’d gotten to his hotel room from Feliciano’s home that such a rendezvous would be impossible. He had a concert on Saturday evening. His entire afternoon was booked with the dress rehearsal and pre-concert lectures.  
  
It had been late, but Roderich had carefully printed out directions to the square he had stood in earlier that day. The square where he had met his angel. And Roderich had run there, through the dim streets. He’d only gotten lost once.  
  
But even the buskers were gone, and the only passersby didn’t take any notice of him. They just kept moving on their different paths. They were couples walking into restaurants. Couples walking home. Roderich watched them go by, holding each other’s hands and laughing. He stood in the same spot he had been that afternoon for almost an hour, watching strangers, before it started drizzling and he finally gave up.  
  
She wasn’t coming back.  
  
He’d lost her.  
  
Roderich had trudged back to his hotel in the rain. He’d gotten lost more times than he had bothered to count, and by the time he was able to open his suite’s door, he was soaked to the bone. And alone.  
  
And now it was Monday and Roderich still couldn’t think properly. He didn’t know why he was acting like this; he’d only talked to his angel for fifteen minutes, at the most! But there was something about her… something that shone in her smile. Something that made the light around her a little softer. Roderich couldn’t place it, but his memory also couldn’t do it justice.  
  
So, instead, he played and he dwelled. Erzsébet probably loathed him now. She probably thought he was an unpunctual chauvinist who regularly stood up lovely women on first dates. He’d probably never even see her again. A thousand chances, _ruined_ , because of his absentmindedness. Because of his music.  
  
Why did this always happen to him?  
  
\- - - - -  
  
“Was this all really necessary? I thought field agents were supposed to be all about _stealth_ , Beilschmidt.”  
  
Gilbert turned to his left and saw the disapproving face of his co-worker turned lackey. He turned to the right and saw the huge police force he had assembled outside of the main Bianchi mansion. _Hell yeah_. “Of _course_ this is necessary. You’re playing with the big boys now McKirkland. This is the way Team Awesome does things. Now watch and learn.”  
  
He picked up a megaphone. “Come out before I shoot the door down! We’ve got warrants! And really big guns! We can do it, so open up!”  
  
He set the megaphone back down and turned back to Arthur.  
  
“Impressed?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost everybody is in the same place at once, and yet no one really knows what’s going on. I like this. ( _Some of them are beginning to get suspicious though._ )
> 
> Double Also: you’re not supposed to fully understand the conversation between Antonio and Francis. So don’t worry about that. If you do, you’ve either been reading really closely or you have a minor psychic link with me at the moment. If so, rent is due and utilities are not included. Yeah. This section sets up a high school side story, entitled Happy Days, centered around the BFT. **2015 edit:** WHICH I WHOOPS NEVER WROTE OOPS
> 
> Triple Also: Why so shoujo heroine, Roderich?
> 
> Quadruple Also: This part’s really disjointed… my excuse is that it’s a conscious stylistic effort to convey lots of movement all at once, and to show how harried all the characters are. In reality, I’m just blah at flow.


	30. The Escape (One of Them, Anyway)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Feliciano is rescued. But the balance of the universe must be restored: things go badly for others as a result.

The handcuffs rubbed his wrists raw as he struggled against them, and all Alfred could think was that he really wished he’d gotten into bondage at some point in his life. Because then he’d be able to shimmy his way out of the shackles that kept him prisoner. Maybe. At least he’d have some kinky memory to escape to whenever he thought about the damn cuffs ( _imagine them pink and fuzzy, Jones. Let the situation become funny. Don’t give up!_ ).  
  
Alfred coughed and felt something thick and gelatinous slide up his throat. He spat, and the blood clot landed where his torturer had been standing, earlier ( _five points for Jones_ ). He still wasn’t sure of relative times, but it felt like the man had been gone for a while. Alfred wondered if it was dinner time yet. What he wouldn’t give for some fries.  
  
Fried chicken.  
  
Chicken and gravy.  
  
Gravy and mashed potatoes.  
  
Pancakes, made by his brother. Yeah, that sounded about right. Alfred was pretty damn sure they hadn’t taken any of his internal organs yet, so he felt free to say that he’d give a kidney at the moment for Breakfast for Dinner! at Mattie’s.  
  
All this thinking was really making him hungry. His stomach didn’t grumble in agreement, so Alfred assumed it had already passed out from hunger. But Alfred F. Jones had bigger things to think about at the moment than home cooked meals, as wonderful as those were. Getting out of the chair before the guard came back was priority number one.  
  
And getting his hands free was priority number point five, because he kind of needed to do that before he could get out of the chair… hmmm. Alfred liked thinking outside of the box; it was how he’d come up with so many amazing inventions. It was how he fit in so well with the less law-abiding members of society… and not going there at the moment. The important thing was that Alfred F. Jones could think up solutions that most people might not try. Given enough time, his solutions moved from the ridiculous to the actually quite useful. And Alfred had just had an interesting idea…  
  
The chair he was cuffed in didn’t seem all that strong. Not flimsy, per se, and mostly uncomfortable. But wooden. That was one of the important parts. Alfred wouldn’t have tried what he tried next with a metal chair. That would have only increased the pain too much in his already battered body.  
  
First, he grabbed the arms of the chair, and with what motion the handcuffs allowed him, he began to _pull_ and _twist_. And the chair began to _creak_.  
  
That was a good sign.  
  
Alfred thought about his options for a moment. He was already in pretty bad shape. He was beginning to see spots at the edges of his vision. He was hungry. He was tired.  
  
Nothing was enough to stop him from twisting his body one way and the chair’s right armrest the other, only stopping when the cracks were the sound of wood splintering at the seams and not his ribs or his ankle twisting again. Once the arm was free of the rest of the chair, all Alfred had to do was slide the restraints on his right hand off the piece of wood. One hand free ( _and a shiny new bracelet and everything!_ ).  
  
He tossed the piece of wood to the floor and surveyed the rest of the chair. From what he could see, the arm had been glued on… “Shitty craftsmanship. Wonder where it was made.”  
  
Alfred, for once in his life, thanked God for shitty craftsmanship and went to work on the second arm of the chair with the extra benefit of a free hand. Twenty minutes ( _he’d guess that, mostly because that felt like a nice solid amount of time_ ) later, the chair that had formerly been Special Agent Jones’s prison was a heap of scrap wood on the floor.  
  
Gilbert would be proud of him. Once he got out of there, Alfred would have to tell Gilbert about his grand and amazing escape. Textbook comic book hero escape, actually. Alfred’s first priority was to get out of wherever the hell he was, but after that he was busting some bad guy _ass_. For justice ( _fine. A bit for revenge too_ ). His musings were cut short by the sound of footsteps returning down the hallway. Well shit. Alfred’s cocky dreams dissolved like cotton candy in the rain. How the hell was he supposed to get out? Breaking out of the chair had cost him most of his energy.  
  
He’d begun bleeding again, in several places.  
  
He was finding it hard to stay standing.  
  
This was _not_ cool.  
  
The door opened, and Alfred saw the ugly mug of the bastard who had been ‘getting information’ from him for the past however long. The suit didn’t even have any food with him ( _just think about a burger and a shake, and everything’ll be okay_ ). But he _did_ have a murderous expression, upon seeing Alfred standing and the chair in pieces on the floor.  
  
He didn’t even look impressed. Alfred was insulted.  
  
Were he in better condition, Alfred would have picked up one of the bigger pieces of wood and would have begun thrashing his tormentor right in the face. Or he would have gotten a robot to do it. But his body just wouldn’t _move_ when he told it to, and his guard was all the way across the room before he could even think about putting any more weight on his left leg.  
  
In one hit, backfist, straight to the temple, Alfred went down. He didn’t know anything after that until he woke to darkness.  
  
He didn’t know what time it was.  
  
He didn’t know when he could ever hope to go home again.  
  
All he knew was pain.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Feliciano couldn’t stop pacing. Usually he didn’t pace when he was anxious. Usually he worked, flitted from painting to sculpture to pot of pasta on the stove and occupied himself that way. Lovino didn’t even pace, so it wasn’t that he was better adapting his brother’s mannerisms. No, Feliciano didn’t know why he was doing what he was doing, but that didn’t stop him from doing it.  
  
At all.  
  
“Feliciano. Are you absolutely certain this was the right thing to do?”  
  
Ludwig sat on one of the straight-backed chairs next to the fireplace. There wasn’t a fire in it, which made sense. It was too warm out for fires. “…not really, ve.”

“I see…”  
  
He wished he could make Ludwig understand that he was doing his best. That was all he could do right now, even though usually he did 110% with things like cooking and painting to take his art to the next level!  
  
“I know you are doing your best…” Oh. “But we are not getting any closer to an exit. Can’t you pretend that, as your brother, you need to do business with someone? Outside of this manor?”  
  
Silly Ludwig. “Ve, that’s silly Ludwig! They don’t care about Lovi much more than they care about me. We can’t _ask_ to leave; only amateurs do that.” Ludwig didn’t have the heart to tell him that they were hardly experts in organized crime.  
  
A light went on above Feliciano’s head. Figuratively. “That’s a great idea, Ludwig! Ve, we’ll just _sneak_ out!”  
  
Ludwig wanted to know when he had suggested that they try and sneak out of a criminal stronghold crawling with men with guns who didn’t like them very much. “I didn’t say that.”  
  
Feliciano stopped pacing and threw himself onto the ottoman in front of Ludwig. But he didn’t cease all movement; he kept kicking his legs back and forth in the air as he outlined his master plan. “How should we try it… ve… how about, when they come back to take us for dinner you hit them really hard and I lock them in a room and then we run away?” Feliciano smiled up at Ludwig and Ludwig didn’t know what to say to that other than a very intelligent “hng.” But his brain told him, still a bit wobbly, that there was some merit to the idea.  
  
“Then it’s the plan!”  
  
Five minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, Ludwig was having second thoughts ( _his first thoughts, aside from ‘hng,’ had occurred around 2m15s_ ). “Are you sure this won’t end badly?” Not that he didn’t trust Feliciano, but sometimes Feliciano had very _strange_ ideas, and having Ludwig hide to the side of the doors while holding onto a lamp was one of them. “I do not believe the lamp is really necessary.”  
  
“Of course it is! And, ve, of course I don’t know that this won’t end badly! But it’s better than nothing, don’t you think?” Feliciano was now skipping tight, nervous circles in the center of the room.  
  
 _Hng._  
  
\- - - - -  
  
The man who’d formerly been a well-respected member of the Family before he’d been reduced to playing doorman to that Russo shit they were keeping upstairs knocked twice before he entered. Who knew what that Lovino kid was getting up to in there; he _was_ Romolo’s grandkid.  
  
What the man saw, as he entered the suite, was the strange sight of a grown man skipping in a circle, realizing that he was being watched and falling over onto the floor. “Fuck it all, who said you could fucking come in here! V-fuck! Get the fuck over here and fucking help me the fuck up!” Vargas sure liked that word. Fuck. It was starting to lose some of its punch though, with all the man had had to hear it in dealing with Vargas over the past few days.  
  
“Yes Mr. Varga—” And then there were stars. Lamps to the head would do that to a man. Ludwig threw the ( _most likely antique_ ) lamp aside, didn’t mind the crash, sort of minded the mess, and picked up the prone body of the man he’d just knocked unconscious. Why did this seem so familiar?  
  
“Now?”  
  
Feliciano picked himself up from the floor and pointed towards the bathroom. “In there! And move this bookshelf in front of the door while you’re at it.” He then proceeded to not help Ludwig at all, other than to offer up a “ _ve_ you’re so _strong_ Ludwig,” that made Ludwig’s neck go red and his mind go blank.  
  
Once done, Ludwig returned to Feliciano’s side. The door was still open, and the hallway seemed clear… they could _finally_ go home.  
  
They took off running.  
  
And as soon as they made the first turn onto a side corridor, they ran into a group of six Bianchi lackeys. Damn.  
  
Feliciano cursed, for the nth time ( _Ludwig had been counting_ ), except this time didn’t feel forced at all. “ _Fuck._ ”  
  
They took off running.  
  
And at first, they ran in the same direction. But although Feliciano didn’t look it, he could run _really_ fast when he wanted to. Olympic sprinter fast. Two hallways later, and Ludwig had completely lost sight of Feliciano. He thought he heard the slam of a door, but he didn’t stick around to investigate it, because he could hear footfalls that promised pain directly behind him.  
  
Suddenly the hallway ended, and a flight of stairs began. Ludwig leapt down them, again and again, until there was nowhere else to go except a long maze of hallways, covered in soft red carpeting. Gaudy.  
  
There weren’t just footsteps behind Ludwig anymore, though. Suddenly, he wasn’t quite sure how, there were thugs behind him. He tried to reach out and grab one to use as a shield or _something_ to defend himself, but to no avail. There were too many.  
  
Ludwig hoped, as he hit a fist against the door of the room they had thrown him into, that Feliciano was safe.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Ludwig was dead, he just knew it! He was dead and it was all Feliciano’s fault, because Feliciano had left him behind, hadn’t even noticed that he’d been running too fast and now Ludwig was alone which meant he was dead because what was he supposed to do without Feliciano?  
  
Feliciano had picked a door at random and had thrown himself into the corresponding room as fast as he possibly could. It looked like a small library. He’d whipped the door shut behind himself without really thinking. He’d waited.  
  
And waited.  
  
But the sounds of shouting and anger and running had faded away and while he was relieved that he hadn’t been caught, Feliciano was deathly afraid. Because Ludwig hadn’t found him. Which meant Ludwig wasn’t safe.  
  
Suddenly, a door slammed shut somewhere nearby.  
  
 **SLAM**  
  
It could be Ludwig looking for him.  
  
 **SLAM**  
  
It probably wasn’t Ludwig looking for him.  
  
 **SLAM**  
  
They were getting closer…  
  
 **SLAM**  
  
Was Feliciano going to die here? Now?  
  
 **SLAM**  
  
Without even —–ing Ludwig _once_?  
  
 **SLAM**  
  
Feliciano could hear footsteps outside the library doors. This was it. But… his grandpa had slept around so much; he _must_ have some sort of cousin related to the Bianchi family. Feliciano was related! They couldn’t do this to him!  
  
The door to the library opened, but it wasn’t Ludwig standing in the entrance. It wasn’t some nameless, faceless man who wanted to kill Feliciano either.  
  
It was Antonio.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Antonio hadn’t processed, at first, that his search was over. He’d almost shut the door again and gone across the hall to look at the other rooms. He’d been getting a little desperate, at that point. But then he realized there was a person in this room. A person who Antonio didn’t have to make sure didn’t report his presence in enemy territory to anyone else.  
  
A person with a lost expression and a familiar hairstyle. “Feliciano! I finally found you!” Antonio entered the room in two long strides and pulled Feliciano into a tight hug. “We’ve all been really worried about you,” he let Feliciano go, “ _especially_ Lovi!”  
  
Feliciano perked up. “My brother’s here?”  
  
“I don’t think so.” Antonio wished he was, so he could see that Feliciano was alright, but “I’m not really sure where he is, to be honest. But that doesn’t matter, he’ll be fine. _We_ have to leave. Now.”  
  
Feliciano began to follow Antonio out towards the hallway but stopped just inside the doors. “Antonio, ve, you have to help me! I lost Ludwig!”  
  
That name sounded kind of familiar. Did Antonio know any Ludwigs? Hmmm… not that he could remember. Wait. It was Feliciano’s friend’s name? His _special_ friend? “Where is he?”  
  
“Ve, I don’t know. He’s alone and they were chasing him and me and he’s in really big trouble, I bet, the kind that he can’t get himself out of! We have to find him. And help him. And then get out of here!” He appeared torn between venturing out into the hallway and returning to the library and hiding under one of the desks there.  
  
“So you don’t know where he is?” Antonio took a little initiative and took Feliciano by the arm and dragged him into the hallway. He could hear shouting from downstairs, but he didn’t pay any attention to it. Now where was that balcony he’d seen earlier…?  
  
Feliciano didn’t protest at being dragged along. It was better than being trapped. “No, ve, but I wish I did.”  
  
The noise from downstairs was getting louder.  
  
Antonio figured it was too late to try and find the balcony that he and Feliciano could climb down to safety from. Going downstairs was obviously out of the question. Instead, Antonio peered out the nearest window. They were apparently at the back of the house, facing some lonely street. It was good enough.  
  
They looked to be on the third floor. Three stories? That wasn’t so bad. Antonio could handle three stories. He opened the window, pulled Feliciano back when he looked as though he was about to run off looking for ‘Ludwig,’ and put his left foot on the sill. It seemed sturdy enough. “Feliciano, once I’m down there I’ll signal you to jump. Then I’ll catch you and then we’ll run to my boat.” Antonio spread his arms wide. “And then hopefully we’ll be safe!”  
  
Antonio’s optimism wasn’t enough to convince Feliciano. “Ve, we’re really high up… and I need to find Ludwig. I can’t leave him here. Thanks for coming to rescue me Antonio, ve,” he looked out the window and down at the street far below, “but I think I’ll pass.”  
  
His words fell upon the rush of air Antonio had left in his wake as he’d jumped out the window. Feliciano wanted to scream, very badly, except he didn’t want to alert any scary men to his presence, and Antonio was getting up from the ground below and he didn’t look injured at all. In fact, he looked rather thrilled.  
  
“Okay Feliciano!” He held out his arms, “I’m ready!”  
  
Feliciano was not. “Y-you want me to jump?” Antonio nodded and held his arms out a little wider. Was he going to try and catch Feliciano bridal style? “Ve… I think I have an appointment somewhere else right now…”  
  
Antonio’s face got scary. “ _Jump, Feliciano_.”

“Ve… put pasta and roses on my grave and tell Ludwig I loved him!”  
  
Feliciano jumped.  
  
Antonio, surprisingly, caught him before the ground did.  
  
As he set Feliciano ( _if Antonio and Lovi got married, Antonio could start calling Feliciano his brother! Was it premature to start thinking like that? Would Lovi prefer a wedding in the spring…?_ ) gently to the ground, Antonio had to ask something. “Do you think Lovi would ever let me catch him like that?”  
  
Feliciano raised an eyebrow in response, for once content that that was all he needed to say.  
  
Antonio sighed. “That’s what I thought.”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Ludwig stopped beating on the door when he heard noises coming from the room— no, the cell next door. “Hello? Hello? Who are you? Is someone there?”  
  
The noises didn’t get any louder, but Ludwig was finally able to distinguish them as groans of pain, once he stopped shouting his questions. He didn’t ask if the other man was alright. Obviously he wasn’t. Ludwig hated when people asked “are you alright?” to people who obviously weren’t. It was pointless.  
  
“Do you know if there is any way out of here?” _That_ was a practical question. A little stupid, too, if Ludwig had been in the right mind to think about it. But he wasn’t. So he didn’t.  
  
The groans quieted down. Ludwig hoped the other man hadn’t died. Was that a bad thing to think? But then a voice spoke, without any shake of pain or fear. “You got anything to eat over there?”  
  
“W-what?”

“I’m fresh out in here. And I’ve got a great big hunger to boot. We’ve got real sucky hosts, in my opinion.”  
  
Ludwig agreed, if not in those exact words. “Yes.”  
  
The voice sounded so excited. “You have food?”  
  
“No. I agree that they are bad hosts. Although I don’t think they are really trying. If they were, they wouldn’t have kidnapped me in the first place.”   
  
“You kidnapped too? Small world!”  
  
What was Ludwig supposed to say to that? The voice was growing faint, but still held a note of resilience. Ludwig knelt closer to the wall that connected them so he could hear it properly. “Yes… a small world.”  
  
“You know, I don’t think they really locked my cell door when they left.”  
  
Why hadn’t he said that sooner! “Then you can get out and free me. I promise to help you escape. I am not totally useless in a fight ( _Gilbert had made sure of that, when they were growing up_ ).”  
  
The voice made a noise between a choke and a laugh. “Yeah, well, the thing is… I can’t really muster the anything to stand right now. Can barely talk, hurts the ribs yeah? But it’s nice to have someone to talk to.”  
  
Ludwig wasn’t sure if the man was insane or just delirious with pain. Probably both. “I see. That is… a shame.” It was more than a shame, but Ludwig couldn’t remember how to say the oaths he wanted to say in English.  
  
Something reverberated down the hallway, muted by the awful carpeting. It sounded like…  
  
“Quiet! Someone’s coming!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no!! Alfred’s beat up even worse, Feli and Ludwig are separated… but at least Antonio’s made sure Feli’s safe! What’s going to happen next!? ( _Stay tuuuuunnned!!_ ) Hint: brothers ( _and a minor flash forward, just to tease you_ ).
> 
> I worry now, about whether I’ll be able to deliver the amount of EPIC! that you guys are all expecting. It’s like ‘okay, update time… is this the chapter that totally screws it all up?’ All I can do is try. And let Gilbert run around like a maniac. We’re nearing the end now…


	31. The Brothers Beilschmidt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> INTERPOL cracks down upon the Bianchi mansion, and Arthur and Gilbert both find prizes in the basement. Some more joyful than others.

“You go right.”  
  
“Why should _I_ go right?”  
  
“Be _cause_ , McKirkland, I told you to and I’m your superior officer. And because there’re really creepy bloodstains and dents on those walls and I don’t want to have to be the one investigating that shit.” No way, no how. Marks like that usually meant serial killers and while Gilbert’s vest was awesome, it was hardly full-body armor. “It’ll be good training for you.”  
  
Arthur scoffed. He also remembered that he’d already printed out three Complaint of Misconduct forms that morning. Had already carefully printed Gilbert’s name on them ( _Beilschmidt, Gilbert Wilhelmina. If Gilbert could butcher someone’s name, then so could Arthur_ ) right at the top. Yes, just after he had heard that Gilbert was being given sole command of their _combined_ mission. Which was bullocks but it never hurt to be prepared. And after that fiasco upstairs, Arthur knew he was going to be printing out at least five more forms once they got the bloody hell out of there.  
  
“I’ll go right then. But you had better stop ‘testing’ rooms by spraying them with bullets. One of these rooms has to have a person in it, and if you shoot before saying anything we’ll probably get sued again.” Who got pay cuts when the department got sued? Oh yes. Right. The Sub-Officers. “They’ll find a way, they always do.”  
  
“Gotcha, McKirkland. Do things the boring way, over and out.” Gilbert made a walky-talky end transmission noise and began stalking down the mostly intact left corridor. He could hear Arthur making noises of British confusion at his back and laughed a little. That guy must have had _such_ a lame childhood.  
  
Gilbert kicked down the first door he came to. No one was inside.  
  
He tried the doorknob on the second and found the room unlocked ( _the first door had been unlocked as well, but it wasn’t lucky enough for Gilbert’s caution. Instead it met the end of its usefulness under the boot of questionable justice_ ). Just to spite Arthur, he fired a few rounds into the ceiling after noting that the room was empty.  
  
A soft “Blimey!” echoed from the other hallway. Oh yeah, Gilbert still had it.  
  
He continued opening doors and alternating between shooting at lamps and the floor. This inspection was beginning to get boring. Where was Alfred? Where were all the gold and stolen artworks? How come all the rooms downstairs were empty?  
  
Gilbert turned at a bend in the hallway and finally saw the end of it; the end was a door. A door half ajar.  
  
 _Interesting._  
  
Since it was very likely there were people in this one, Gilbert made sure to keep his body out of the line of fire as he threw the door open and aimed his gun at every danger point in the room.  
  
The vault.  
  
Because, really, the room looked more like a vault on the inside. An empty vault. _Well shit._ Gilbert took the moment to swear in every language he knew, loudly, because he’d been stuck doing desk work for this case for months, and it had finally culminated down to this one strike, this one moment. And the vault was empty. His stolen artworks were in another castle.  
  
“Brother? Is that you?”  
  
 _What was that now?_  
  
“Gilbert, that sounds like your voice. It is me,” wasn’t very clarifying. If the voice hadn’t obviously belonged to his little brother, Gilbert wouldn’t have been able to figure out who ‘me’ was. That was really an oversight. “Open the door this instant!”  
  
He turned away from the empty vault and back to the hallway. Gilbert noticed it was lined with rooms; rooms that he’d bypassed upon seeing the suspiciously open door-at-the-end-which-had-ended-up-just-being-a-disappointment. “Which one?”

“…I am not sure.” While still loud, Ludwig’s voice echoed too much for Gilbert to exactly place which door he was hiding behind.  
  
“There are three near where I am.” One of them looked really sturdy. Like, ‘if I try to break this down by kicking it I will probably break my ankle and there’s really no way to walk away from that with pride ( _or ankle_ ) intact’ sturdy.  
  
“Then open all of them. Let me out of here!”  
  
Gilbert was always glad to have the chance to just hang out with his little brother. “But then I’d open two wrong ones.”  
  
“…Or you might open my cell on the first try. So stop wasting time.” Ludwig sounded like he did when Gilbert drank milk without using a glass. Oh yeah. He’d done that just a few mornings ago.  
  
“Guess what I did when you left on your ‘work trip.’” He stuck his ear against the door closest to the vault. This was the sturdiest one… he really hoped Ludwig wasn’t stuck in there.  
  
“Does this really have to happen right now, Gilbert?” That definitely hadn’t come from behind the intimidating door; Gilbert couldn’t hear any noises coming from it. Good. He wouldn’t have to bother with it then.  
  
“Yeah, no better time for it that I can see, really.” Many mobsters and officers and agents and brothers would care to disagree. Strongly.  
  
Gilbert moved on to the second door. “About your work trip… why are you always leaving on those anyway? You’re almost never at home anymore. How are we supposed to get wasted when it’s just me? How are you supposed to learn my wonderful ways if you’re never around?” He wasn’t complaining. He did not need his little brother to fill the gaping void of human interaction in his life. Gilbert Beilschmidt was not 32 and pathetic.  
  
“…that’s a little pathetic, Gilbert.”  
  
“Goddammit, Lud, it’s not!” The voice had been a lot closer that time. But Ludwig had descended to name-calling so Gilbert could descend to leaving Ludwig locked up in some random room in a house full of Mafiosi. It was fair.  
  
“My apologies. It is very touching that you want to spend time with me, but I am rather worried about my fr— my cli—… I am worried about Feliciano. And that other man. I’d like you to get me out of here.”  
  
“Feliwhonow?” Since when had Ludwig been on first name terms with anyone except family and… and _him_?  
  
“Feliciano. He is the reason I’m in Venice right now. He’s the reason that I’m ever in Venice.”  
  
“Hey, by Feliciano, you wouldn’t happen to mean Feliciano Vargas would you?”  
  
Ludwig’s reply was quick and nervous. The sort of response big brothers spent years waiting for. “ _Why?_ ”  
  
Gilbert chuckled. “So that’s a yes?”  
  
“…it isn’t a no.”  
  
It had to be this door; Gilbert could feel the awkwardness oozing out of it. Nobody but his little brother could manage that. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of little bro! You’re finally learning that other people have bits, and sometimes those bits can be really awesome to—”  
  
Ludwig’s voice was loud and his blush was hot. Not that his brother could tell. “He’s my client! I do castings for him!”  
  
“Oh.” So Ludwig had been meeting up with the world-famous artist Feliciano Vargas in Venice on his ‘work trips?’ Sure. _Work trips_. Gilbert understood 100 percent. The note of pride in his voice was very obvious when he continued to ask “And the other guy?”  
  
“There is a prisoner in the cell next to me as well.” Ludwig went silent for a moment, and just as Gilbert thought that he’d finished talking he began to speak again. “I believe he is hurt very badly.”  
  
Another prisoner? This was good. Nobody could sue INTERPOL for damages if they’d been keeping people against their will in the basement. Proof of stolen artwork or not. “How bad? Like, give it to me on a scale of 1 to 10. And don’t sass back and tell me 11, because I gave you a clearly defined set of numbers, Lud.”  
  
“I haven’t heard any noise from him since… in a little while. I would say 9. Unless he has died of his injuries in the time since. Then I would have to say 0 because bodies do not feel pain.”  
  
There was a guy dying nearby and they’d been wasting time? “Fuck this family bonding then: which room is he in?!”  
  
“The one to my left.” Ludwig’s voice abandoned its seriousness for a moment and took on a wondering tone. “Your voice hasn’t moved since you started talking about beer. You know which room I am in. You’re standing right outside. Why?”  
  
The door on Ludwig’s left was the sturdy one. Shit. “Oh, you know. I like my jokes, uh… you wouldn’t happen to have a key for this thing would you?” Gilbert liked his ankles. They helped him walk and dance and crouch in the bushes outside people’s houses. All very good things.  
  
His voice was matter-of-fact again. “Of course.”  
  
Great! Gilbert’s ankles were saved! The door hiding Ludwig looked a lot flimsier, and so it turned out to be after Gilbert was able to crack it down by throwing himself against it twice. Breaking down doors had been a skill he’d acquired in college; one of the few from that dastardly place that he’d kept. “Lud! Are you alright?” He looked fine enough, if a little manhandled. And a little annoyed. Maybe a little overdressed too, but still ( _of course Ludwig could clean up good: he was a Beilschmidt_ ). “Okay. Where’s the key?”  
  
Ludwig greeted his big brother with a shove to the forehead for the stupid conversation that had wasted his time. “There is no key.” Before Gilbert could start one of his tirades, Ludwig continued. “He didn’t lock it after he left.”  
  
Special Agent Gilbert Beilschmidt was confused. “Who?”  
  
 _Perhaps he had said too much._ “I… I cannot say.”  
  
His little brother sounded like he had when he had been six and had accidentally spilled water on one of their father’s precious first editions. Of course Gilbert had been an awesome older brother and had stepped up to take the blame, but when the spotlight of their father’s glare was on him… Ludwig was a shitty liar. “ _Who_ Ludwig? This is actually kind of important, if you didn’t notice the vest.” He pointed at his chest just in case. “I’m on duty right now. You’re actually in the middle of a sting, oddly enough.”  
  
Ludwig didn’t look surprised ( _later on Gilbert would learn that was because the hectic combination of Feliciano and his brother all in one day had numbed Ludwig to most feelings for about 12 hours_ ). “It is depressing to say so, but I am not surprised. But I cannot say who it was that spoke with him, the other prisoner that is, because…” he looked up at the ceiling, “because I do not know who he was.”  
  
Gilbert didn’t quite believe that, but he let it slide anyway. “Sure. You could’ve said that sooner.” And without further ado he went to open the sturdy door the boring way, because in this instance it was the better way. The knob turned easily, without squeaking or grating. It really hadn’t been locked.  
  
The room was dark. The only light was the sliver from the hallway let in by the open door. The sliver which fell directly, dramatically, ironically over the center of a lump near the left wall. After a few seconds, Gilbert realized the lump was a body.  
  
 _Shit._  
  
Gilbert let his brother rush past him into the cell. He stayed at the door, and got himself under control before cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting as loud as he could towards the other hallway. “ **Hey! Arthur!** ”  
  
One of the Italian officers responded instead. “Is that you Agent Beilschmidt?” His footsteps and voice preceded him along the twisting hallway. “Have you found something?”  
  
“Get me a medic and Agent Kirkland. Now! Go!” The man’s footsteps turned and rushed away, and Gilbert choked down the tiny bit of fear that had risen in his throat, the first he’d felt all day. He stayed in the hallway to flag down any units sent to help him. Or Arthur. And he watched as his brother fretted around the man lying on his front on the cold stone floor, surrounded by splinters.  
  
“Found you, Alfred.”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Arthur was dragged away from the mess by a fast-talking Italian police officer. He was too full of triumph to even try and find someone to translate for him, or to ask for the man to slow down and speak English. Instead he followed along as the officer pulled at his arm, out of the room full of arrested Mafiosi and recaptured paintings and statues and officers. And Arthur’s victory over Gilbert ( _who had solved the case, now? Who? Arthur Kirkland? Why yes_ ).  
  
He dragged his biggest prize along after him.  
  
The officer left him when Gilbert met him at the beginning of a side hallway. Arthur wondered what Gilbert had managed to find; most likely nothing so interesting as what Arthur had.   
  
“The child seems to be having a panic attack,” Arthur pointed at the young man behind him, “Don’t mind him.”  
  
Gilbert looked distracted and Arthur wondered if he should worry; had they already told Gilbert that Arthur had cracked his case right from under his pathetic boots or was something actually… _wrong_? “Shit, McKirkland, get him to a medic then. These bastards probably tortured him or something, do you even want to guess what’s happened to him?”  
  
Oh. It was just concern. Funny thing, coming from Gilbert. But then again, Gilbert had always been the sentimental sort. “He matches one of the last dossiers Alfred forwarded to me.” And, therefore, Arthur had no pity for Ármannsson, Tryggvi.  
  
“What?”  
  
“He’s one of the thieves Alfred and I have been watching.” Not the most important one, true, but they’d already caught that fish outside. “And now I’ve captured him.”  
  
Gilbert looked at the trembling boy ( _man? It was hard to tell his age when he was all scrunched up like that_ ) in front of him. He was reminded of Ludwig before the growth spurt that had stopped any and all bullying. “…you should still get him to a medic.”  
  
“He bit me.” Arthur held up his arm for proof.  
  
“Kid,” Gilbert crouched down to the boy’s level. So, about a foot lower. It was a little awkward, but hey, it was worth it. “I promise I’m getting you a fucking medal when we get out of—” Arthur pistol whipped Gilbert on the side of his head. That was _not_ okay, and if Gilbert remembered Line 43 of Section VI of the 18th Chapter ( _also known as page 698_ ) of his handbook correctly, it was also grave misconduct. _Totally_ calling him out on that one. “Shit! Ow! Can’t you take a joke McKirkland?!”  
  
Arthur put his gun back into its holster and made sure his grip on the whelp’s collar was tight. The thing kept trying to scurry off, just like the rat it was. “You deserve that.”   
  
Gilbert rubbed his head and scowled. “Why?”  
  
“I still haven’t paid you back for knowing that freak.” That was an entire childhood of trauma that Gilbert had unearthed and forced Arthur to relive upstairs. Even with the stupid scraggly facial hair, Arthur Kirkland had been able to spot Francis Bonnefoy all the way across the parlor. Gilbert hadn’t even let him book the French pervert for association. Instead, the bloody idiot had forced him into _conversation_ in the middle of a raid.  
  
Wanker.  
  
“…I know, it’s weird right? I haven’t seen Francis in years.”  
  
Arthur wondered if he could get away with hitting Gilbert again. The kid might get ideas and try to escape… “Just tell me if there are any more of _these_ ” he jostled Ármannsson, Tryggvi, “down here.”  
  
“Not that I’ve seen; just my brother, oddly enough, and oh! Yeah! Alfred’s down here too. Sorry, probably should have said something about that one sooner.” Gilbert’s words reached Arthur as he shoved the boy away and raced down the hallway. Arthur stowed them away in the back of his mind to report to their superior later on ( _withholding information vital to a case was misconduct too_ ).  
  
But petty arguments and contests with Beilschmidt were secondary.   
  
They’d found Alfred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so everybody’s 100%, this part takes place a little in the future from Chapter 30. Chapter 32 will go back to the present. I did it this way ‘cause I want to draw this out as long as possible. And because I’m mean.


	32. Chrysanthemums and Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything gets shot to hell as Erzsébet and Tryggvi get separated, Arthur is forced to stand through a Gilbert-Francis reunion and Feliciano arrives home only to find out that things are worse than he thought.

_Click  
  
Click_  
  
 _Click_ _Click_ _Click_ _Click_ _Click_ _Click_ _Click_ _Click_ _Click_ _Click_ _Click_ _Click_ _Click_  
  
Good, they were out of bullets. For now. Tryggvi took a deep breath and vaulted from one hiding place to another. The statue he had previously been crouching behind had acquired a few more holes than the artist had intended, and Tryggvi had taken that and the clicks of a room full of empty magazines as the cue to get the hell out.  
  
He wondered what would have happened to them had Erzsébet not been able to hold the only entrance. There would have been backup. Backup meant more guns, more bullets, more knives, more people who wanted to hurt them. He hoped Francis was faring alright, wherever he was. And Romano. He hoped Romano had been smart enough not to stay in plain sight.  
  
Tryggvi hoped everyone was alright. He curled himself into a little ball behind the bookshelves that were his newest source of cover, and dialed Eduard because he needed to know that everyone was going to be fine. Fine and wonderful and Tryggvi would get the cash he needed and then he didn’t even know what but he would figure it out from there.  
  
The call connected, but the voice on the other end wasn’t Eduard’s. Tryggvi threw the phone far away from himself, hoped it would hit a Mafioso on the head and contemplated having a good cry. The voice had been speaking Italian. It had said something that sounded a lot like ‘polizia’ and even Tryggvi could figure that one out. It explained all the muffled shouting and stomping coming from the ceiling.  
  
Maybe they were always going to be doomed to failure.   
  
Erzsébet had the same thought, from her position near the door. Three unconscious men slumped at her feet; the door guards she had initially caught by surprise. “Open the vault if you don’t want anyone else to get hurt!”  
  
The vault guards sneered from across the room, undaunted. Erzsébet would have despaired if she could process anything other than adrenaline at the moment. Instead she acted: pure instinct and physical strength.  
  
And a little bit of luck.  
  
She flung herself away from safety, noted that the men were aiming at her again ( _so they had reloaded?_ ) and made one last rush at the vault. Except it wasn’t really a last rush, because one of the suits was stupid enough to get his head in the way of her swinging wrench. He dropped his gun. It fired as it hit the floor, and the bullet grazed a little burning line against Erzsébet’s shoulder, but in her surprise she didn’t notice.  
  
In their surprise, the guards missed their last opportunity to get rid of the crazy woman ( _it was just some woman, how much help could they need to stop her?_ ) with the blunt object. Erzsébet picked up the gun and pointed it at the remaining three men as though it was the most natural thing in the world to her.  
  
“I _said_ , open the vault.”  
  
One of the men tried to reason with her. He’d tried the same when she’d first slammed open the door using the body of one of his scumbag friends. “Pretty lady, it doesn’t need to be like this, alright? Set down the gun and give up. You’re outnumbered.”  
  
She shot him in the leg.  
  
He stopped trying to talk to her and one of his friends set his gun on the floor and walked over to the vault. _Finally._ “Tryggvi, get over here and help me.”  
  
“Help you do what?” floated out from a corner of the room.  
  
“ **Just do it!** ”  
  
Tryggvi got over there, as quickly as he could. As someone who suffered from periodic anxiety attacks, he could tell that Erzsébet wasn’t in the best shape. And she had a gun; that was new. He was sure he didn’t like it. “I’m here…”  
  
Erzsébet nodded, eyes still on the men in front of her. The man on the floor, bleeding. The man next to him, glaring. The man behind them, pulling open the door to the vault full of…  
  
Paintings.  
  
Paintings and not a piece of gold in sight. “What is this?!”  
  
“…it’s the vault ma’am.” Oh so they were being polite _now_.  
  
Tryggvi spoke up from his place behind the safety of Erzsébet’s fury. “I think what she meant was ‘where are all of the gold bars and things you stole from us? From Alfred. From us.’”  
  
The men stared, blankly, until the one on the floor finally realized what was going on. He started laughing, a pathetic gurgling little sound, and he pointed with one hand straight out the room’s only entrance. “You want the other vault Miss, the one at the opposite end of the hallway.” He babbled something about coincidences until his voice dwindled away and he passed out from the pain.  
  
The messy fight had been for nothing? She had shot someone for nothing? _They had gone the wrong way?_  
  
Screw ‘just thieves’; Romano was going to **die** the next time she saw him.  
  
“…let’s go, Tryggvi.” Erzsébet kept her grip on the gun tight and pulled Tryggvi along behind her by his right wrist. She tossed a little apology over her shoulder as she went, ( _“sorry about the confusion, boys!”_ ) and didn’t look back.  
  
As they neared the crossroads where they had left Romano some time before, Erzsébet’s life took another downturn. Because not only was Romano not there anymore ( _coward, when she got her hands on him…_ ), there was also the matter of the familiar voice, magnified a hundred times, resounding through the hallways from the upper levels of the house.  
  
“Oi! It’s INTERPOL, bitches! Guns down, hands up and show me your contraband!” Erzsébet’s eyes widened. She let go of Tryggvi’s arm, let go of the gun, stopped moving altogether. Tryggvi ran into her back and tripped but she didn’t notice. She couldn’t notice anything at the moment except for that voice.  
  
No. _His voice_.  
  
Another voice joined the first, yelling almost as loud. “Shut up Beilschmidt! Can’t you ever take anything seriously? Our entire surprise advantage has been lost because of your damned carelessness!” Beilschmidt. It _couldn’t_ be…  
  
“Are you kidding? This is the most serious face I’ve got. You’ve got to be this fucking awesome and commanding to show punks like these who’s in charge.” Shit.   
  
It was.   
  
Erzsébet pulled Tryggvi to his feet and began to run, any which way she could, not back towards the passageway they had entered through, no of course not, that was blocked for some reason, by three or four handcarts where could they have come from? Instead Tryggvi and she dashed up a side staircase, mostly used by servants if Erzsébet guessed correctly by the simple décor. They sprinted dashed ran pell-mell up and up until there were windows again, and light, and Erzsébet was surrounded by people and panic and she didn’t check behind her to see if she was still part of a ‘they.’  
  
Either way she had been right; she’d taken a servant staircase right up into the servant quarters.  
  
The help, the maids, butlers and cooks, rushed out of the house through every little side exit like rats fleeing from a sinking ship. Erzsébet grabbed a fallen apron and joined a line of young women with fearful expressions scurrying away through a kitchen door. Of course, the police were outside, trying to get the women to stay quiet and form little identification lines, but it was short work before Erzsébet could slip away and mingle with the onlookers. From there it was even shorter work before she could throw away her apron and assume the blatantly gawking, out-of-place expression of a tourist.  
  
She paused in the crowd, heart still running, and casually looked to her left. To her right. No one looked back at her, and she was grateful. The surge and tide of people had been enough. She had escaped.  
  
Heart beating fast, her mind was blank.  
  
 _Gilbert knew her parents._  
  
Heart slowing down, her mind was full.  
  
 _Gilbert would tell them if he caught her._  
  
Heart stopped. What was going on?  
  
 _Where was Tryggvi?_  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Their parlor was lovely, with a motif of pale green leaves dappled with pale pink roses. Every bit of metal was polished to mirror-quality shine; every panel of wood was perfectly dusted. Yes, Francis approved of the Bianchi family’s interior decorating abilities, if he approved of nothing else in the house. A cute young butler had set him up here, in the parlor; it was too bad that he’d left Francis alone in the room not long after.  
  
Just the roses and Francis and a glass of wine waited in the lovely little parlor. It had been almost fifteen minutes. _Really_ , if he hadn’t had ulterior motives for coming to the mansion, Francis would have been appalled at the lack of courtesy being shown to him. Maybe he should complain…? He did _so_ love watching people sweat when he complained.  
  
But Francis didn’t get the chance, because two older men entered the parlor just as he took another sip of his wine. He stood and greeted them with his best smile and teasing words. “Gentlemen, so kind of you to join me.”

“Mr. Bonnefoy Jr.” Francis knew the man addressing him was the head of the household from observing his father’s past dealings with him. “It is a pleasure to see you again. My, you must have grown ten centimeters since I saw you last.”  
  
The feigned warmth was annoying, but nothing that Francis hadn’t dealt with before. The gross exaggeration of how short he had been only a few years prior was equally expected. Still, it was hard to stop his smile from becoming a grimace. “My father sends his greetings.”  
  
All three men took their seats on separate sofas. Three dark shapes marring the airy beauty of the room. Francis lamented. Bianchi waved his hand. “Tell him they were well received, as always.”  
  
Now he had wine and conversation partners ( _although the one man seemed to be there purely for security purposes_ ). Francis steeled himself for small talk of epic proportions. “Of course.”  
  
Bianchi motioned for his man to pour him his own glass of wine. “What brings you to us, so far from your own home? I must admit, Mr. Bonnefoy, I am terribly curious.” Curiosity was good. Francis could work with curiosity.  
  
He drawled his carefree reply along the edge of his glass. “Business. Pleasure. It’s all the same.”  
  
“Indeed, Mr. Bonnefoy.” Francis wondered when the men would realize he was consciously wasting their time. Hopefully not for a while yet, but even still, their responses could be entertaining. Perhaps Bianchi would splutter at him. Perhaps the nameless man would try to remove him by force, when thinly veiled suggestions failed to make any impression on him.  
  
The door opened again, once more ruining Francis’s contemplation. The man that stood in the entryway looked unsure of himself, but undaunted, he sped over to his master’s side without asking permission to enter. Well now. Something serious must be taking place. Francis hoped Tryggvi and Erzsébet and _the kid_ hadn’t been found out yet. He hadn’t even finished his drink.  
  
Francis didn’t wait for the messenger to leave before placing his question. “Is there something wrong?”  
  
Bianchi, however, waited for the door to the parlor to firmly shut before replying. “No, no. Just a little disagreement between butlers.” That was a pathetic excuse, and all three men knew it. “They come to me to settle things between themselves.”  
  
“I see. My father will be glad to hear that you inspire such confidence in your people. It is an admirable quality.” Had anyone ever called this man admirable before? The thought was laughable. Perhaps Francis did not always do the things he was supposed to do. Perhaps he did not always do the things the law expected him to do. But he was nowhere near the man before him on the scale of moral quality. The mafia families of Italy were so far down in the depths, Francis almost felt sorry for the children born into them. Poor things would never know the light they were missing.   
  
“Isn’t it?” Bianchi chuckled. “But come now, you must have come here to discuss something other than my good traits.”  
  
Francis laughed. “You have me. I’ll admit, I was mostly in Venice to sightsee. But when I was reminded of your residence here and your partnership with my father, I had to stop by.” He finished his glass and set in on the low table in front of him. The nameless man moved to refill it and Francis didn’t stop him. “He is looking to add to his private gallery again, you see. And he had the highest opinion of the works you were able to provide him with the last time you did business together.” Such a boring topic, but at least it would hold Bianchi’s attention.  
  
But the discussion on paintings ( _stolen, no doubt_ ) was not to be. The door to the room flew open again, and a different messenger entered. His whispers were louder, and with hand gestures to boot, but Francis didn’t bother eavesdropping. He could guess well enough what was happening.  
  
The house of cards was crumbling.  
  
This time, Francis waited for the door to shut. It wouldn’t do to provoke a desperate man, no matter how much he was trying to hold onto the veils of power and perfection. Of control. “Now there _must_ be something amiss.”  
  
“Do not jump to conclusions, Mr. Bonnefoy.” Bianchi drained his glass in one large gulp and stood up. “There was merely a mouse upstairs; these old houses, you know, can be so unreliable. I do try my hardest to keep my home presentable, as you have seen, but sometimes there is nothing to be done.”  
  
Francis felt strangely playful. “You could get a cat.”  
  
Bianchi’s expression was priceless. “Yes. Thank you for the suggestion. A cat would do nicely.” Francis was enjoying this…  
  
But then the shouting started.  
  
Bianchi and the other man didn’t look at him before getting up. “If you would excuse us, Mr. Bonnefoy.” Francis frowned and tried to stop his hosts, but they had already weaseled out of the room and away from sight by the time he got to the door. Damn. He hoped they were going to be busy with the police for long enough to keep his teammates out of any significant trouble.  
  
As for Francis? He closed the parlor doors and returned to his wine. He could wait, it wasn’t as though he wanted to try and run from the house; he could never get away with it and would only make himself look like he had something to hide in the process. No, Francis lounged on his sofa, drank his wine and waited for the police to come to him.  
  
And come to him they did.  
  
“You’re all talk Gilbert.” The voices were close enough to be distinguishable. There were quite a few, but a pair stood out. Probably because they were the only pair not speaking in Italian.  
  
“Nuh uh, I bet you 20 Euros I can kick down a door. With just one foot too!” Or maybe it was because both of the voices were eerily familiar; Francis had met Antonio again less than an hour beforehand, on the street. What were the chances…  
  
“Taken.”  
  
 **SMASH**  
  
They were very good chances, because the boot that destroyed the door to Francis’s sitting room belonged to a foot which belonged to a leg which belonged to Gilbert Beilschmidt. And standing behind him, across the room, was a face that Francis Bonnefoy had almost forgotten. Little ‘Eyebrows Kirkland’? It had been _far_ too long. Francis gave a quick wink to the ceiling, because someone above him must have been rewarding him for the smattering of good deeds he had done in his life.  
  
He even mouthed a ‘thanks.’  
  
“No way. No _way_. Francis?!” Francis Bonnefoy soon had two arms full of hot-blooded German greetings, because as soon as he recognized the occupant of the parlor, Gilbert jumped into his old friend’s arms. “It’s me! Gilbert! Wow, I haven’t seen you in forever!”  
  
‘Eyebrows’ hung back. In fact, he looked more than a little green around the edges. “Yes. Well. Right. I’ll just be off to another room then.”  
  
Gilbert disentangled himself from his old friend and dragged Arthur back by his collar before he could fully go. “You can’t leave now! I have to introduce you! This is Francis Bonnefoy. We’ve known each other for fucking ever. I don’t think there’s ever been a better team than us, except for when you throw Toni into the mix and _fuck_ , then we’re unstoppable.” Gilbert’s grin, now _that_ was unstoppable.  
  
“Actually,” Francis spoke as soon as he could get a word in and an arm around both Gilbert’s and Eyebrows’s shoulders, “I already know your partner here. We go back even farther than you and I do, if you can believe it Gilbert.”  
  
The noise that came out of the mouth of Gilbert Beilschmidt wasn’t pleased. It was more of a whine than anything. “Really?”

“That doesn’t matter.” Arthur flung Francis’s arm away from him as though it was a particularly rancid animal corpse and tried to stomp away. “I am leaving _now_ , Beilschmidt, and I would advise you to do the same. We’re on duty.”  
  
Predictably, Gilbert didn’t listen. Instead he used his own free arm to catch Arthur by the elbow and drag him back again. Satisfied that his audience was all present and accounted for, Gilbert launched into conversation. They had _so many_ years to make up. What to say first… “So we’ve got this Russian spy outside…”  
  
Arthur batted Gilbert’s hand away but didn’t leave. “Which means that at least _I_ am accomplishing my objectives.”

“That doesn’t count; it was the Italians that found him. The score is still 0-0.” Gilbert tapped the side of his head and thought about it for a bit. Francis watched the scene, amused. “Or even 1-0, because _I_ , at least, am in the process of busting my bad guys.”  
  
Now that was interesting, and it led the way into something Francis was dying to ask. “It may be a strange question, but Gilbert, my friend, do you happen to work with INTERPOL these days?”  
  
“Fuck yeah! It was the vest, wasn’t it?”  
  
Francis did not bother to hide his smile. Gilbert was still tinkering with things, still making his own clothes. Francis wondered if he still knit. “It is a wonderful vest.”  
  
“See McKirkland?” Gilbert rounded on his temporary partner with all the confidence of a two-versus-one man vote. “The vest is bitchin’. You’re just too boring to see it.”  
  
The eyebrows twitched. “Hardly.”

“McKirkland…?” Francis couldn’t keep it in any longer. It was all too much. He managed to say one thing coherently before doubling over in laughter. “That is almost as good as _my_ name for you. Isn’t that right, little ‘Eyebrows Kirkland’?”  
  
Arthur blushed, wished he had a can of mace and kicked his co-worker in the shin. They were co-workers. If he killed Gilbert, Arthur would look bad. “Stop laughing you twit. Beilschmidt, we have work to do. Take him into custody and let’s get **on** with it.”  
  
Gilbert had the strange tendency to cry and laugh at the same time. He did so as he hopped up and down, holding his injured leg. “Custody? McKirkland, this is _Francis_. He’s an old school buddy of mine, we go way back! I couldn’t book _Francis_.”  
  
“You can’t ‘book’ _anyone_ you bloody idiot. We don’t have the authority to make arrests; we can only take suspects into the secure custody of the local police.” He sniffed haughtily. Oh yes, this was the Arthur Kirkland that Francis remembered. Exactly. “Or don’t you even _know_ what your job entails?”  
  
His reprisal fell on deaf ears. Or, rather, busy ears. Gilbert had already fully recovered, enough to start divulging classified information to his friend. “And this is my gun. Awesome, right? I get to carry it whenever I want, even around the office. That reminds me, where do you work?”  
  
That was an interesting question, since Francis was technically on the job right then, but not something he felt comfortable answering around a jumpy agent and a house full of Italian police officers. “You know me; I hardly need to work.”  
  
“Ha! That’s right! I bet you spend all your time lounging around and being French and banging people!” The only reason Francis didn’t take offense to that was because one, it was Gilbert, two, he didn’t say it disapprovingly ( _quite the contrary_ ), and three, it was Gilbert.  
  
“Something like that.”  
  
It would be almost half an hour before Arthur would be able to pry himself and Gilbert away from the room and the ridiculous bastard within. And even that was with the curse of having to see him again ( _“hey, just sit tight here, Francis. I probably have to take you in for witness questioning or some shit like that, but don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault you went to visit some friends of your dad’s that turned out to suck.” “I shall. Take your time”_ ). What had Arthur done to deserve this?  
  
“Hey Eyebrows” Oh God no, the pervert had gotten the idiot started on _that_? “Why don’t you like Francis…?”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
When Erzsébet ran, Tryggvi tried to follow. But he wasn’t fast enough, and he was soon left behind. Lost and alone. And scared. And when he’d heard footsteps coming closer, he’d panicked, and run. Ironically enough, he had run straight back to where he had started. It was there that the law, in the form of a very disgruntled Arthur Kirkland, finally caught up with him.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Feliciano Vargas came home to a broken front door and a house teeming with people. The second he was used to, because his brother rarely trusted him to be by himself, as silly as that thought was. The first was a little more out of the ordinary, and a sad reminder of his last few days. Antonio looked worried at first, to see so many men in the garden cleaning up broken glass or puttering past open windows, but Feliciano reassured him. “Don’t worry, ve, it’s just grandpa. I hope he hasn’t been worrying about me.”  
  
Antonio thought that was kind of funny, in a distant way, as he watched his former co-workers watching him out of the corners of their eyes. “We’ve all been worrying about you Feliciano.” He steeled himself for whatever was about to happen. “Let’s just get you inside now.”  
  
The foyer only had one man in it, sitting on a chair and speaking softly to someone on his phone about “making arrangements for the bodies.” He fiddled with his blue tie and visibly started as Antonio and Feliciano appeared before him. “M-Mr. Feliciano!” he dropped his phone, caught it in midair, lost his grip on it and dropped again. The clatter on the hard flooring echoed throughout the room. The man then noticed Antonio. He rubbed his wrists, strangely red under a crisp white shirt, and frowned. “ _You_.”

“Ve, where is everybody? Where’s grandpa? Where’s Lovi? Where’s…” Feliciano might have kept going, but he stopped questioning once the wind was knocked out of him. Once his grandfather appeared in one of the doorways and knocked him to the floor in the biggest tackle-hug Antonio had ever seen ( _Feliciano had to have gotten it from somewhere_ ).  
  
“My grandson has come home to me!”  
  
“Ve,” Feliciano struggled for breath. His grandfather was still quite a strong man, despite his age. “Grandpa, you’re in my house. Ve, I came home to my own home… how did you find out what happened?”  
  
Romolo stood up and dusted off his boy. His grandson, who was safe ( _one down, one to go_ ). “Ah, you know.” He chuckled awkwardly. “I have my ways…”  
  
Every man in the room, Antonio included, fidgeted at Romolo’s words. It was always strange talking about the family business around Feliciano. His laughter and light made them feel so guilty about it… “You mean the mafia? Ve, grandpa, I know about all of that. How did you think I wouldn’t notice? _Seriously_ , ve.”  
  
A room full of Mafiosi, men who had stolen and killed and done so many things to regret, was being dressed down by slight man who liked to paint naked on occasion. They all, the feared Romolo Vargas included, were being made to feel just about the size of an apple. If the situation wasn’t still so tense, Antonio might have laughed. As it was, he smiled, before Romolo hit him upside the head.  
  
“Boy. Pay attention.” What was it with Vargases and the thought that the only way to get Antonio to concentrate was to hit him? It wasn’t very nice. Mr. Vargas could have at least tried to ask first. “I suppose I can forgive you, since you brought my grandson back to me. But this is a onetime deal.” He opened his arms as if to welcome Antonio back into the fold, but… it felt wrong.  
  
“I’m sorry Mr. Vargas. But I’m not sorry at all.” Antonio took a deep breath. He’d been saying so much lately, so many things that he’d been holding onto for years in the back of his mind. Why stop now? “I quit.”  
  
Romolo paused. “This family is not something one ‘quits,’ kid.” He looked more resigned than angry. Antonio hoped he wouldn’t get shot on the spot. While he liked being honest with people, he also had two full boxes of condoms back at his apartment and a lifetime he wanted to spend with Lovino before he died.  
  
That, of course, hinged on whether Lovi got back safely from whatever he was doing. Antonio could only believe in him. “I know. And I’m not going to… I just want to switch branches. So to speak.”

“That’s funny, boy.” Romolo stepped closer. To anyone else, he would have been deep in their personal space; Antonio had never fully grasped that concept. “And what, exactly, do you think gives _you_ the right to make those choices?”  
  
On the other side of the room, Feliciano Vargas took command of the situation. He began as he usually did, by pestering his brother’s men. And what he learned wasn’t to his liking. Not one bit. His guardians, the men he had loved like some strange band of cousins who were always picking up after him? The men who smoked in the back garden behind the roses, who cleaned the floors, who made him breakfast, who cheered him up after long days and the slow times in between inspiration?  
  
Those men were all, without exception, dead. Gone. Shot to death in a canal in the middle of the night. By the very same men who had been holding Feliciano captive. Who _still_ had Ludwig. That was too much. Far, _far_ too much.  
  
Feliciano Vargas was **angry**.  
  
“You’re only telling me this now?” He began to pace again, in circles around the table in the center of the room. Someone had changed the flowers in the vase on the middle. Chrysanthemums. For the first time in his life, Feliciano Vargas wanted to hurt someone. It frightened him.  
  
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this at all, Mr. Feliciano. The last thing we want is for you to worry unnecessarily…”  
  
“ **Fuck that!** ”  
  
That got everyone’s attention.  
  
“You’re just standing here? Doing nothing while so many people were hurt? For me? For no reason at all? I don’t, ve, I… I’m going to make them pay.” Antonio and Romolo shared a look, their own argument forgotten.  
  
“Feliciano, you shouldn’t say something like that…” Antonio trailed off. He wasn’t the best person to tell Feliciano not to wage a vendetta. Of course the Russo family, the Vargas men in particular, would take revenge. They couldn’t _not_ , that would be weakness. But Feliciano wasn’t a part of that life. He shouldn’t be saying those things. He should be happy.  
  
If Feliciano wasn’t innocent then did any of them have a chance to find peace again?  
  
“I… I…” Feliciano slumped to the floor and five suited men rushed over to him. “I don’t want to hurt anybody. Ve, I wish Ludwig was here. I wish Lovi was here. I wish this had never happened.” He also wished he could just cry, because for some reason he couldn’t. All he could manage was a fist and a terrible black burning in his chest.  
  
“Feliciano…” “Mr. Feliciano…” “Oh _Feli_ …”  
  
And then the tears started, and Feliciano knew what he had to do. “I wish this had never happened. But, ve, wishes don’t count for anything. You have to _make_ things happen.” That was his motto when he painted. His motto for project ‘Seduce Ludwig!’ It would be his motto now. “I want them to apologize. And mean it.”  
  
They looked at him like he was a child, slow to grasp the complexities of life. He did not appreciate it, not one bit. He continued with clear, determined eyes. “And if they don’t, I want them to _suffer_.”  
  
The man with the phone ( _recovered from the floor_ ) and the blue tie chose the most awkward possible moment to interrupt. “Mr. Vargas.”  
  
Both Feliciano and Romolo snapped their heads around and looked him straight in the eyes. It was eerie. “Ah, that is… he wants to talk to you now.” He gestured to his phone. “The Boss, that is. Mr. Lovino.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next one is called SUPER SHOWDOWN, although it’s more of a showdown of words. It’s morphed a lot from when I was drafting up bios and the general plot. Originally, Al wasn’t beat up so bad, he knew who Lovino was, and Antonio was there. And there were guns. ( _And the name is a lot misleading, 'cause it's really a showdown of men and minds. That is your warning._ )


	33. Gold and Greyscale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two men of very different backgrounds talk, for a few moments. And Lovino finally secures his stupid little brother's gold. That too.

This had to be quick. He knew he was probably being watched, that or a new rotation of guards would be coming down soon; Lovino knew all the tricks. So as soon as he saw the room at the end of the hallway, he opened the little bag he’d brought with him. As soon as he’d finagled the vault door open ( _lock picking was child’s play. So was ‘run a message for your uncle’ and ‘try not to get shot kid’_ ), he’d gotten his cell phone out of his pocket. _His_ phone, not Apple Cinnamon’s ( _he still had to be avenged_ ), because the one thing Lovino wanted the most at the moment was his family tracking him.  
  
He’d found Feliciano’s gold.  
  
Millions and millions of Euros worth of gold bricks and bars and… fuck, he’d _told_ Feliciano that gold hearts were a bitch to store. But the sight was still welcome, because it reminded Lovino of his idiot brother and better times. They would return to those times soon enough. Just as soon as he got his brother’s things back to where they belonged, hopefully like Antonio had already done with Feliciano himself.  
  
Lovino pressed and held the number 4 on his phone, held the device to his ear and waited.  
  
 _Ring._  
  
 _Ri—_  
  
Dutiful as always, Blueberry answered. “Sir! We have all been extremely worried about you. Where are you?”  
  
But Lovino didn’t have the time for idle chat. “Shut up, listen and don’t make me repeat myself.” He waited for one second and smiled when he heard nothing else on the other line. It was good to finally be working with people who knew their place again. “First thing: Where is my brother?”  
  
“Here, sir, about 3 meters away from me on the floor with your grandfather. At his home.”  
  
Antonio had succeeded then. Lovino would have to… to something. He’d have to do something and it would probably be appreciative and, and something like that but he didn’t want to have to think about that at the moment. At all. “Good. Second thing: how many of us are watching the Bianchi mansion right now?”  
  
“Sir?”

“ _What did I say about making me repeat myself?_ ”  
  
“Four in the crowd, three on the canal, two on opposite buildings.”  
  
Good. Lovino could work with nine flunkies. Although nine seemed an awful many; usually they only sent a few guys to keep watch on their rivals. And had Blueberry said something about a crowd? It was early yet. There shouldn’t be any crowd outside a residential area like this… “Why so many?”

“Do you not know about the raid taking place there… Boss…?”   
  
Raid. _Raid?!_ “Tell me everything you know, now. Five second version.”

“The police are gearing up to shut those bastards down, our man inside told us about it this morning. Apparently INTERPOL’s in on the action too. Those Bianchi bastards won’t be able to show their faces in Venice for years to come. Good news, eh Boss?”  
  
So they weren’t afraid of anything, that wasn’t why they had upped surveillance. No, they were watching a train wreck. Lovino knew his men, knew Russo’s men. He should have thought of that first. But even though the downfall of the shitfaces who had abducted his brother was a nice culmination to his revenge, something so good he could tell people he’d thought of it himself, it did present a new problem.  
  
The police were in the area, and Lovino had a room full of gold to get out of there. Fast. Not to mention himself; while Lovino held the Italian police in almost as low regard as he held the idiots who thought they could mess around with his little brother, he had no illusions about their ability to arrest him. And eventually recognize him. And jail was not a place he ever cared to visit.  
  
“I’m going to give you directions now that will get those nine into the mansion from underground. I need them to move Feliciano’s money somewhere safe before the fucking cops get here.”  
  
Blueberry spluttered into his phone. “B-but, but how—”  
  
It had been too long since Lovino had been able to shout at someone like this. He couldn’t appear overly aggressive to the band of thieving morons, and as loath as he was to admit it, he didn’t want to hurt Antonio’s feelings ( _oh God. I really **am** —_). “They’ll figure it out when they get here. And fast. If they aren’t down here in five minutes, it’s _your_ balls on the line.”  
  
“Sir!”  
  
\- - - - -

“Well?”  
  
“Yeah?”

“What do you have to say for yourself?”  
  
“You’re hardly someone who can be asking me questions like that.”  
  
“If not me, then who else?” He sighed after he heard nothing from the other line. _He_ was _always_ like this. He had always been. Where had he gone wrong…? “You didn’t need to do this.”  
  
“If not me, then who else?” His words were mocking. Would it be so wrong to tell _him_ that he had sounded the same, back when he’d been younger?  
  
“We would have gotten someone to do something about it.” Multiple someones, with much more firepower. They would have stormed the mansion and there would have been blood but it would have accomplished the same thing. Perhaps with more loss of life, but only on the other group’s side. This was an ‘us’ versus ‘them’ world after all… shit. He hated thinking like this. It was why he’d retired in the first place.  
  
“And what? Killed Feliciano in the crossfire?”  
  
He balked at the thought. No, that was the last thing that he wanted. But the second-to-last thing he wanted was his other grandson dying in the rescue attempt. “Lovino…”  
  
“Don’t you _Lovino_ me, old man. I’m getting things done. You don’t even get to talk; I bet you flew straight in when you heard, right?” He had. “And then what did you do? Sat around? At least I was doing something!”  
  
Yes, it really was tempting to tell Lovino that he had acted much the same when he had been younger. Brash, cocky, maybe not quite so angry, but angry when he had to be… Lovino wouldn’t like to hear any of those things. He hated being compared enough as it was. “Your part is done now. Come home and I promise I won’t be angry. In fact, you and your brother can even go on a picnic with grandpa, how does that sound? We haven’t done something as a family in so long…”  
  
“When I come back there it’ll be because _I_ decided to.” At least he was still planning to come back, once he’d learned that Romolo was there. “Do whatever you like with that idiot. I’m busy.”  
  
Romolo wished that it didn’t have to be like this. He knew, from the detailed reports from his old right-hand man, hell, even from the nonsensical reports from Antonio ( _…and then he tapped his left pointer finger against the counter at about two taps per second, and then he sighed, and then it was about two o’ clock so he snuck a look at the clock to see if it was siesta time yet, but it wasn’t, so then…_ ) that Lovino didn’t act like this with other people. Certainly he was brusque, that was just part of his nature. But this downright chill was reserved for grandpa and grandpa alone.  
  
And grandpa had only himself to blame.  
  
When he’d first thought to retire, Romolo Vargas had dismissed the idea. It was stupid. It was foolish. People didn’t retire from the mafia, not unless ‘retire’ was a euphemism for ‘get shot in the ass.’ But the years had gone by, some quick some slow. They had blurred a trail of blood and laughter and tears past Romolo’s vision, and before he knew it he had a legitimate family, and then his children were having families of their own and one day he held his smiling grandson in his arms, second of two ( _he’d been abroad when little Lovino had screamed his way into the world; he’d later sent a card_ ).  
  
That day, Romolo had decided that he was going to do what no one had done before.  
  
He didn’t quite manage it. Instead, he lived in a strange limbo where he didn’t do anything for the family anymore, but his reputation still carried him through events and out of trouble whenever he cared to use it. It was an odd life, but it suited him; and so he’d tried to get little Lovino to choose the same. To see that the life of crime didn’t give as much as it took away from a person.  
  
But by that point, Lovino barely spoke to him. Usually only through his brother ( _ve, grandpa, Lovi was here last week, didn’t you know? He left a message for you, something about your shop in the south, ve, but he wouldn’t tell me any more than that_ ). Romolo Vargas had to use his connections and a paid tail just to keep track of his own grandson. It was pathetic. But, although he would never say it, so was he.  
  
“You still there?”  
  
On the day Romolo had formally gone into retirement, he had promised himself that there would be no more secrets. No more lies. No more shots in the dark, cement shoes and rivers, none of it. Romolo had been brutally honest… for just one day. For about an hour, it had been beautiful. He didn’t hold back when he saw lovely ladies on the street ( _well…he would have given those compliments anyway_ ), not when saying goodbye to his old men ( _“I hope Maria pushes you under a train for all you did to her”_ ). He especially hadn’t held back when he’d visited his orphaned grandsons, late in the afternoon.  
  
And it had been fine.   
  
Except for halfway through the hugs and greetings, when the phrases “Feli! I love you the most!” and “you always were my favorite, you know!” left his mouth. He hadn’t quite realized the extent of the damage for a few days, he’d just thought Lovi was at that sulking age, but apparently Romolo Vargas’s single day of honesty was the straw that broke the camel clean in two.  
  
That was when Romolo had decided that complete honesty was more trouble than it was worth. He’d been living cleanly, mired in his careful, beautiful mesh of lies and truth ever since. But that wasn’t quite enough to repair the relationship with the grandson that was more like Romolo than he would ever wish to know. So Romolo got by on secondhand reports and terse, hollow apologies for holiday absences ( _I know it’s Christmas. I’m busy. Ask Feliciano, I was with him all last week_ ).  
  
It was a little funny, really.  
  
“Fuck, it doesn’t even matter. They’re here now. Expect us soon.”  
  
 _Click._  
  
Romolo threw the phone back behind his shoulder and smiled at the men surrounding him. “We’re going to be having guests soon, boys. Better bring out your good china, Feli!”   
  
The worst part of the whole situation was that the cause of it wasn’t even true anymore. The feared Romolo Vargas had just never had the courage to say anything about it.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Lovino snorted in disgust as he hung up on his grandfather. As much as he hated talking to the old man, Lovino hadn’t been lying. Nine men he vaguely recognized ( _the fuck, where are_ my _muffins?_ ) were racing down the hallway towards him. All Lovino had to do was jerk his thumb back at the open vault behind him and glare a bit and they fell into work faster than he could snap his fingers.  
  
Good. This was the way Lovino liked things done. No questions, his authority ruled and above all no manual labor to be done by him. It was good. It made him feel lost. Lovino took off his scarf ( _thank God he’d never need to wear it again_ ). He let his hair fly whichever way it wanted to. He slumped against the hallway wall.  
  
He watched the Russo family thugs do their work in silence and wondered at his life. Because as much as he loved situations like this, where he had complete control and got to laugh in other people’s faces in the end, all he really wanted to do was go home.  
  
The last shipment of gold rolled by him ( _really Feli? Cupids?_ ), and Lovino Vargas prepared to leave the mansion and return to life as it always was. But first… he walked into the vault. There was the tiniest sheen of gold dust on the floor. Not much he could have done about that; they’d just have to leave it.  
  
But just leaving felt so… so anticlimactic. Sure, the police were probably about to bang down the doors any second, but Lovino wanted his own closure. He wanted to leave a little white notecard in the center of the room, with a little witty message in crisp black ink that let the Bianchi know just who _exactly_ had screwed them over. Who had won in the end.  
  
Nah.  
  
Lovino shook his head as the last of the men passed him by on the way back out to the tunnel entrance ( _they worked quickly. Faster than his own muffins, damn those lazy slobs… They had better be alright_ ). That was stupid, cinema stuff. He didn’t want to give the cops any way to pin him at the scene anyway. He was just going to go back to Feliciano’s house, present him with a sizable ‘late birthday gift’ and be done with it. He could get someone to fix up his books to explain the income later.  
  
Lovino settled for destruction of property, as he left the vault. His first target was the closest door. Except he wasn’t able to kick a hole in it, to vent his frustrations. Because it hadn’t been closed properly. So when his foot came down on it, it didn’t break. It just swung open and hit the opposite wall with a loud **BANG**.  
  
He paused at the noise. But no one came running. So he turned his eyes back to the dark room and… and the body within? Shit, really? They’d left a dead guy in the room next to Feliciano’s money?  
  
“H-hey… back for more are you?” So the man wasn’t dead yet. Fine. The voice was confident but weak. Annoying.  
  
Lovino didn’t leave it at that, though he probably should have. “I’ve never been here before. So no. Not back for more.” He walked closer to the man slumped on the floor.  
  
“Is that so?” He coughed, a hacking wet sound. “‘cause your voice is really familiar. Or maybe you bastards have just hit me on the head one too many times. That sounds about right, yeah…”  
  
The bastard was crazy. “You probably shouldn’t be talking.” A wheeze was the only response Lovino got. He continued. “Not that I’m going to be doing anything about it; fuck no, as far as I care you can have the cops get you or die in here.” He stopped when he was a few feet away from the body. The man.  
  
The man that looked rather familiar, in the light. “Cops?”  
  
Maybe if he had glasses… “Yeah. The police are going to be all over this place soon.”  
  
The man lifted his head, just the tiniest bit, and Lovino could see it clearly, somehow through the blood and the vomit and the bruises. He’d received a dossier from Lotte about this man the evening before, just before he’d returned to Antonio’s apartment. Lying on the floor in front of him, completely defenseless, was Special Agent Alfred F. Jones.   
  
And he had just given him hope. “You’re not lying?”  
  
The sound of incoherent shouting floated down from the upstairs. Lovino needed to leave… “Why bother? That’s probably them.” But he didn’t move.  
  
Jones swiveled an eye to peer up at roughly Lovino’s face. It was probably all he could manage, that and the voice that sounded three sizes too small on him. “You’re not so bad. That fucker introduced you as Lovino, just, shit I don’t know how long ago. But I don’t forget things like that.” His laugh might have been a cough might have been a laugh. It was hard to tell. “Was dropped too many times on my head as a kid for any of these knocks to really matter. Just ask my brother!”  
  
Whatever spell Lovino had been under broke at the mention of brothers. He kicked Jones in the face, dead-on. “Funny you should say that. I’m not the guy you were introduced to, although I hope he took a crack at you too.” Feliciano wouldn’t have. But Lovino could always dream.  
  
Jones didn’t know when to quit. “F-fine. Sorry. Not sorry. You’re just mafia trash. I don’t have to be sorry to you.”  
  
Lovino contemplated kicking him again, and settled with pressing his foot against Jones’s ribs, slowly adding more and more force. “Fall off your high horse, shitface. You aren’t some sort of perfect angel of justice either.”  
  
“I—I—” Lovino got the message after a few seconds of helpless, uncontrollable coughing and let his foot up. Slightly. “I’m more of a hero than you’ll ever be. Tell me, have any good tricks for getting blood out of clothes? This shirt might be ruined…”  
  
“Shut the _fuck_ up. Being chatty gets you dead around here, you fucking moron. Or haven’t you figured that out yet?”  
  
Jones clutched at the floor. Lovino realized detachedly, that he must be in quite a bit of pain. He didn’t care. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell him beforehand?”  
  
Jones’s eye was confused. Lovino was angry. He elaborated anyway. There were things he needed to say. “You’re INTERPOL, right? Peace and justice and all of that shit? Why couldn’t you have the common courtesy to _tell_ Feliciano Vargas about your fake job? Why not save him the trouble of worrying?” And now the eye was guilty. “Didn’t want to fucking leak your stupid secret agent secrets? Didn’t want to have to talk to some little pansy shit if you didn’t have to? I’d like some reasons…” And he would stay until he got them.  
  
“…are you _sure_ you aren’t that guy? ‘cause you talk like him.” Lovino stepped on Jones’s neck next, briefly, as a warning. “We decided not to inform Vargas of our plans because we hoped they’d be done before he even got back. We just needed Ed—the spy to contact his boss. That’s who we’re looking for. Who INTERPOL’s been looking for.” Jones stopped, because he didn’t need to say any more. If Lovino hadn’t known about the catastrophe that had evolved afterwards, he wouldn’t be in the room, threatening the pathetic man on the floor.  
  
This was too fucking complicated. Lovino didn’t want to have anything to do with it anymore. He prepared his parting words. “You talk too much.”  
  
“Y’know what I want?” Great. The fucker was getting philosophical. “Besides seeing all you rats get locked up. That would be nice.” His arm clutched at his chest, and the movement made a strange grating noise that Lovino couldn’t place until he saw the handcuffs. “But yeah. I wish I was home right now. No more espionage. Just home. Do evil bastards like you even understand the concept, or…”  
  
Jones was baiting him. Lovino knew it, but he had to answer anyway. He refused to let some self-righteous asshole who had caused Feliciano so much pain try and pretend that Lovino and his family weren’t human too. “Home is where the heart is.” It was pathetic and unlike him, but it was true. And Lovino was just about ready to return to his own.  
  
Apparently, that surprised Jones. The eye widened. “That’s what they say.”  
  
“I have one, if you were wondering.” Jones’s eye remained wide but his eyebrow rose too, and Lovino wanted to kick him in the face again, because was it really so far-fetched? “A _heart_ , you fucking moron.”  
  
Jones smiled and Lovino had no idea why. “Y’know, every time you say ‘fuck’ you convince me a little bit more that you’re at least _related_ to that guy from earlier. I mean come on, the resemblance is astounding. Your outlines are both so… person-shaped!”  
  
Great. Lovino had been arguing with a hallucinating piece of shit. The shouting was getting louder… he really had to leave. Jones wasn’t worth the cops finding him. Jones wasn’t worth anything.  
  
Lovino gave Jones a few good parting kicks, didn’t stop until he was sure the little shit was unconscious and didn’t feel a bit better when he was done. It was vengeance for his brother, but it was empty because as twisted as it was, the stupid idiot hadn’t meant Feliciano any harm. It was hard to be good and furious at such stupidity; that was how Feliciano had gotten through life without being properly beat upon by his older brother. He was too stupid for it to really feel good.  
  
This was all too stupid to feel good.  
  
Jones was unconscious on the floor, but Lovino gave him a warning anyway. It was something he had to say. “If you remember one thing, remember this: don’t bother Feliciano Vargas again if you value your life. Your friends can only protect you for so long.” Lovino turned and left the room, barely shutting the door behind him. He kicked the other doors as he went but none of them opened.  
  
There was one man still waiting for him at the entrance to the service tunnel.   
  
Lovino strode past him into the dark. “Block the door. Cave it in on the other side. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. That really turned into unhappy grandpa hour there… and unhappy everybody hour later. The angst! I'm sorry! I just started writing and it wouldn't stop being written! Anyways, in the end, the actual counterheist was kind of… lame. Yeah. That seemed the best way to get everything home. You wouldn't expect Lovino to carry it all himself, would you? Next time moves us from the poor mansion to the poor law enforcement building.
> 
> Also: Never sure whether it's grey or gray, never sure what I used last, consistency is shot to hell.


	34. I Would Like to See a Lawyer and Gilbert Doesn’t Count

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert takes two criminals into custody and he doesn't even know it. Meanwhile, Lovino ruins all of Feliciano's fun and Tryggvi's life _sucks_.

Gilbert regained some of his energy and enthusiasm after the medics took Alfred away on a stretcher, Arthur following close behind. One of them told him that Alfred was going to be alright. Arthur had looked skeptical, but Gilbert believed. Al was tough, and what could the doctors gain by lying to a Special Agent? The fact that Alfred was so silent and pale compared to the confusion and chaos in the rest of the house ( _conditions he normally thrived under_ ) didn’t unsettle Gilbert anymore. The doctors said he was going to be okay.  
  
Despite Gilbert’s resurrected cheer, Ludwig still refused to give his brother a piggyback ride up the stairs. It was a damn shame.  
  
By the time they did get upstairs, Gilbert was starting to lose his excitement again. He watched the Italian officers as they lead both artworks and Mafiosi away, but his joy began to spiral downwards as he saw the look on his brother’s face. It was a bad look. A guilty look. A criminal’s look. “Lud? What’s up?”  
  
Ludwig looked down at his brother as they crossed through an opulent ball room. There was a man still trying to resist the police in the corner. He let his eyes focus on the scene instead of on Gilbert. “Why would you ask?”  
  
“‘Cause I’m your big brother and I’m awesome enough to know when something’s bothering you, that’s why. So spill it out.” He poked his brother in the arm. The action probably hurt his finger more than it annoyed Ludwig, though ( _shit, Lud, what? Do you bench steel blocks now? Oh wait…_ ).  
  
“I am worried.”  
  
“ _About…?_ ”  
  
They were walking through a large study now. Books lined the walls. “About several things. Mostly Feliciano. And you, as well. You know your work concerns me.”  
  
Gilbert grinned. He wasn’t going to let either of those confessions slide by. “You know I’m good at my job; haven’t even been shot yet! Well, just that one time, but it didn’t really count. It was just a scratch.” Ludwig gave him a disapproving look but Gilbert soldiered on. “So… Feliciano Vargas, huh?” The disapproving look dissolved into trepidation. “You aim pretty big there, Lud.”  
  
They went under a large, arching entryway. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
Ludwig really needed to learn that that phrase was a bad way of trying to end conversations with his older brother. It just gave Gilbert an excuse to keep talking. “Vargas is pretty famous. We even have a print of his work at home in your living room,” he stopped walking, and yanked on his brother’s arm so he would stop too. “Shit, that’s not a print, is it?”  
  
“It is not.” Was he blushing? Ludwig’s face felt warm, but that didn’t necessarily mean much. He’d been outside for quite some time on Saturday with Feliciano. Maybe he had gotten a sunburn. And was only feeling it now.  
  
Gilbert took both his hands and moved Ludwig’s head so he was forced to look at him. “He make it for you?”  
  
Ludwig closed his eyes. “Maybe.”  
  
Finally, Gilbert let go. His hands were too busy participating in a victory dance to hold onto his brother anymore. The Italian police officers were staring… “Sweet! I’m gonna have a rich brother-in-law!”  
  
He knew it had been a bad idea to tell Gilbert. He’d never have any peace of mind ever again, not until he brought Feliciano home with a bow and a tag that said ‘Gilbert’s new rich brother-in-law!’ Like that was ever going to happen. Ludwig’s relationship with Feliciano was strictly… strictly… actually, Ludwig wasn’t very sure about his relationship with Feliciano.  
  
Feliciano had touched him a lot, in the past few days. But Feliciano was always touching him; he was a person who thrived off of touch. Ludwig understood that. But Feliciano had also done quite a number of other things since Saturday that Ludwig hadn’t been able to explain. All the comments about Ludwig’s appearance? His type? Lamenting that their date had been ruined? Not to mention all the times that Feliciano’s hands had found themselves on Ludwig’s ass, whether he was “making sure your suit still looks good, ve, you don’t want them to suspect us!” or just “ve it’s so nice, I promise to make everything up to you when we get out of here, Ludwig. I _promise_.”  
  
Ludwig was both afraid of and eagerly awaiting the fulfillment of that promise.  
  
Gilbert stopped dancing once the pair reached a set of gold and white double doors. He didn’t knock, and he didn’t respond to Ludwig’s confused glance. Instead he shouted. “Francis! You still in there?”  
  
A strange voice shouted back. “Of course! Although there is _significantly_ less wine in here with me.”

“You old alcoholic!” Gilbert looked like he approved of this very much. Reminded of alcohol, Ludwig wished he had his own. A beer in hand would be nice after so much… so much everything. “Come out here and meet my little brother!”  
  
Muffled footsteps approached the other side of the door. Ludwig wondered what this Francis would be like. Probably quite strange to be so familiar with _Gilbert_. “Your little brother is also an INTERPOL agent…?” The doors opened wide.  
  
Francis stopped talking as he exited the parlor and both brothers came into his view. If he had been holding something, he would have dropped it. Gilbert didn’t notice Francis’s staring. Instead he pulled his friend and his brother’s hands together into an impromptu involuntary handshake. “Naw, he’s a sculptor-artist-thing. Right Lud? I found him downstairs, isn’t that weird?”  
  
Francis might have normally said something along the lines of ‘indeed’ or ‘I see’ but the first words that came out of his mouth were “I thought you always described your little brother as scrawny.” The man before him was anything but. In fact, the man before him was the man Francis had been appreciating on surveillance tapes less than a week before. Francis remembered his features. This was the friend of Veneziano…  
  
“Yeah, he was.” Gilbert released their hands and said, matter-of-factly and slightly unnecessarily, “He grew.”  
  
“I can see that…” The two were making Ludwig uncomfortable. They probably knew it and were doing it anyway; it was why he had always avoided Gilbert’s friends. “It is wonderful to finally meet you in person, Ludwig. I am Francis Bonnefoy. Your brother and I went to school together.”  
  
Ludwig inclined his head in a short, sharp nod. He didn’t know what to do with new people. “Ludwig Beilschmidt.”

“No need to be so nice to Francis, Lud, he doesn’t deserve it!” If he was a friend of Gilbert’s teenage years, then Ludwig didn’t doubt that. But he would still be polite. It had been hardwired into him; it was harder to be casual. “Anyways, now that I’ve got the both of you, let’s get back to base!”  
  
Francis blinked. Ludwig gulped. Gilbert started walking towards the main entrance. “It’s just formalities, right? Since this is a scene of a crime and all, I can’t exactly let either of you walk away once I’ve found you here.” He stopped and waved at his brother and friend to keep following him. Reluctantly, they did. “But you both have good alibis and I know you wouldn’t be messed up in any of this shit. So you’ve just gotta fill out some paperwork. Nothing big.”  
  
Ludwig wasn’t exactly ‘messed up in any of this shit’ ( _aside from knowing about Feliciano’s family, and pretending to be a Mafia grunt, and having overheard a dangerous_ something _downstairs…_ ). So he would be fine? He hoped they wouldn’t ask him any questions; he knew he was a terrible liar.  
  
Francis was a wonderful liar. And completely ‘messed up in all of this shit.’ “I am sure we will be perfectly able to fill out your paperwork. And then, perhaps, we can go out on the town? Have a drink for old time’s sake?” He had promised himself, after all, that things would change.  
  
Gilbert walked out into the sun and ignored the shouting of the crowds and cameramen and coworkers. “That’s my boat over there… a drink? Sounds awesome; just let me get my street clothes from the station and we’re set!” He frowned and looked at his brother, who was nervously eyeing the reporters. “You gonna be okay by yourself for the night, Ludwig?” His eyes brightened. “Even better, wanna come with?!”  
  
Ludwig declined. Gently. Almost. “No. I believe I will return to Feliciano’s home. If he hasn’t found me yet, then that’s where he must be.” Ludwig had been looking and listening throughout his journey up through the mansion. He hadn’t seen any trace of Feliciano. He hoped that meant he was safe. It probably did: Feliciano got very loud when threats to his safety appeared.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
The boat ride back to the police headquarters did not pass in silence. Francis used the opportunity to speak with Gilbert. Ludwig used the opportunity to worry. “Guess who I saw today, right before I came here.”   
  
Gilbert stopped fiddling with the edge of his vest and looked over his shoulder from his position at the controls. “Who?”  
  
Francis smiled. “Guess.”  
  
“Toni.”  
  
What in the universe allowed Gilbert to always be so lucky? How had he known to guess Antonio? “…how did you know?”  
  
They turned a corner and Gilbert laughed in triumph. “I didn’t: I’m just a kickass guesser!” He hummed to himself. “Hey, guess who _I_ saw earlier today.”  
  
Francis gave the statement some thought. It couldn’t hurt to make sure. “Let’s see… Antonio as well?”

“Nope.”  
  
Too bad. But perhaps the train of thought was heading in the right direction? Francis knew some of their old classmates spent time in Italy on occasion. So did others from the schools that had been nearby ( _it couldn’t have been him. Gilbert wouldn’t be so happy if it was him_ ). “Someone else from the Academy?”  
  
A laugh. “Not exactly!”  
  
When in doubt, go with truths. They never lead you astray. “Arthur?”

“N—well, duh, but that’s not who I’m talking about.” Gilbert looked like he was about to burst from holding his secret in. And Francis never wished harm on any of his friends ( _not often, and only when they deserved it_ ), so he shrugged and conceded.  
  
“I surrender, then. Who was it?”  
  
Gilbert slowed down. They were almost there, and he needed to remember which dock was the right one. “Your babysitter, that Vash guy. He was in one of the interrogation rooms, last I saw.”  
  
Wait. Vash? “What?”  
  
“I think he was bugging people or something, something about guns.” Yes, that would be Vash. Francis was glad to finally know where his butler had gotten off to. He had been worried that Vash had just… left. “They brought him in early on Saturday. The cops were going to let him go today, but they’ve probably forgotten about him with all that fun back at the mansion. You wanna collect him when we get back?”  
  
Francis could think of no better thing. It seemed everything was aligning for him, this evening. Now all he needed was for one of his teammates to send him the okay, and he could finally fully relax. “Of course. So, Vash was in jail?” Gilbert maneuvered their boat over to the side of the canal. “You just _can’t_ find good help anymore.”  
  
Gilbert jumped out and secured the boat while Francis watched and Ludwig contemplated telling him that his knots were not very good. “I know, right? I got stuck with McKirkland of all people for the job today, just ‘cause Alfred, well, one of our agents got captured. Alfred Jones. He’s great; a real stand-up guy.”  
  
Ludwig patted his brother’s arm in sympathy as they made their way towards the entrance of the police station. Francis, on the other hand, had to force his face into neutral. It was still difficult to think about Alfred. He had known the man for a short time, but he had liked him for just as long. It was hard to do anything _but_ like Alfred. “Captured? That is unfortunate. I hope he, Agent Jones, is well…?”  
  
“The doctors told us he will live, although he might not be able to continue his work as a field agent.” Ludwig answered before Gilbert was able to cobble together any sort of response. For that, Gilbert was grateful.  
  
“Doctors?” Francis reigned in his voice. Alfred had needed doctors? Francis might have wished ill upon Alfred ( _upon Romano, as well, more recently_ ). But that didn’t mean he wanted him to die. Francis didn’t want Alfred anywhere close ( _nor Romano, but that was a given. The fool was just a child_ ). “I see. Might I make a quick phone call before we begin my witness report?”

“Yeah, sure. You both can; I bet Lud’s dying to call up his hot little—”  
  
“Gilbert!” cackled as he showed his little brother and Francis into an empty conference room. The rest of the station was a bustle of activity as men were being processed and put into high-security cells. Would there even be time to question Ludwig about what he had heard? Maybe he could get away without any of that…  
  
The words ‘hot little’ were all Francis needed to get started, protests or no. “Let nothing in the way of true love, young Ludwig. Love is truth, it is beauty, it is—”  
  
Gilbert rolled his eyes and backed out of the room. “Fuck, I’m getting out of here. Good luck getting this one to stop long enough to make your phone call, Lud!” He slammed the door behind him.  
  
Francis retreated to the other side of the room. “Go right ahead, Ludwig. I have my own phone with me.”  
  
“Thank you.” He did not like the look Francis was giving him. “It is not what you think. I merely… I have a dentist appointment I must reschedule.” Ludwig… was a terrible liar, but something in him wouldn’t allow anyone, especially not one of Gilbert’s friends, believe that he was about to call up a ‘hot little’ anything.  
  
Francis arched one thin eyebrow. “Really now?”  
  
Ludwig sighed and walked over to the conference phone. If his words didn’t confirm Francis’s suspicions, then his defeated tone certainly did. Could nothing go his way? Maybe he _would_ be better off going drinking ( _his head begged to disagree_ ). “It is very important.”  
  
“Then I will give you the _utmost_ privacy.” And he did. Almost. Well, he paid more attention to his own phone than to Ludwig’s call. But it wasn’t his fault in the slightest if the room wasn’t terribly large and had good acoustics, now was it? Regardless, he leaned against a chair back and dialed Eduard’s number first. No one answered ( _but an evidence bag three floors up did start to buzz_ ). That was unsettling.  
  
Francis tried Erzsébet next. No answer.  
  
Tryggvi. Nothing.  
  
He even tried _Romano’s_ phone. Francis was that desperate. It rang twice before sending him to a generic voicemail. Little bastard must have turned it off on him. Well. If that’s how they were going to play the game… then Francis had no choice but to be worried about them ( _his teammates. Not Romano, because he was obviously fine, unless the police had gotten to him and had been the ones to turn his phone off and drat. Francis was worried about Romano too_ ). He tried to formulate reasons for his teammates all being unreachable. They could be scattering again, running back to the safe house like they had the time before. Some could have been captured.  
  
He hoped no one was dead.   
  
\- - - - -

 _Ring_.  
  
“Who is it?”  
  
He didn’t sound hurt. Or scared. Or unhappy. Or even hungry. All very good signs. “Where are you?”  
  
“…Ludwig?! Ve, you’re alright, are you? You don’t sound not alright you sound fine, oh, ve, I’m so happy, I was so scared that something bad had happened to you back there because you couldn’t run as fast as me and then Antonio came and made me jump out of a window but he caught me so I was fine, ve, I bet you could have done an even better job of catching me, but after that we ran really fast so I don’t think you would have been able to keep up anyways, but I finally got back to my house an hour ago I think something like that and my grandpa was here, do you remember him? Ve, he’s the one that kept hitting on you whenever I pretended to leave the room last Christmas, ve Grandpa, don’t try and wave your hands at me, I know you were doing it! And then you’ll never guess! Just a few minutes ago, ve, a bunch of guys came up through the basement when they didn’t even enter the front door in the first place and they told me and Grandpa and Antonio that The Boss was going to be back soon and then guess what, well, no, you probably don’t have to guess because you know as well as I do, ve, that ‘The Boss’ always means Lovi, so guess who’s telling me to shut up and give him the phone right now!”   
  
Ludwig had never been so happy to hear that loud, incoherent babble before. “I’m glad you’re safe. I was worried…”  
  
“You **fucker**.”  
  
Ludwig was no longer talking to Feliciano.  
  
Because Feliciano was no longer the person shouting into the phone on the other line.  
  
And because Gilbert had returned to the conference room sans vest, and had immediately jumped on top of his brother and had wrestled the phone away and pressed the speakerphone button as soon as he heard Ludwig speaking in such a gentle voice. So, technically, Ludwig was no longer speaking into his own phone either.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
When the angry officer had chased off after the medics, Tryggvi had thought he was going to be free. Which was a stupid thought, frankly, because half a second later he was back to being dragged along like a sack of fish. Tryggvi liked fish; it didn’t mean he wanted to be treated like one.  
  
The paramedics hadn’t let the angry officer into the ambulance boat. They’d told him that the man… that Alfred was going to be fine. Tryggvi believed them because if he didn’t then he might have cried. And he didn’t want to cry in front of the jerk that had been calling him names and dragging him around for the past twenty minutes. But Tryggvi’s silence didn’t mean a thing to the officer; it just labeled him as an easy target.  
  
Needless to say, the boat ride back to the police station was a difficult one. In the very least Tryggvi hadn’t had to ride with the other criminals. The very angry officer had muttered something about this being “Beilschmidt’s job, bloody fucking hell why do I always have to clean up after that bastard.” Tryggvi would have preferred that the officer take a cue from him and remain quiet, but he wasn’t about to make an issue of it. Not when the man had shown himself so deft with a pistol.  
  
Tryggvi’s shaking was getting worse, and he didn’t know why. He was in police custody. The police didn’t look like they were about to attack him anytime soon ( _as long as he remained quiet_ ). What could possibly happen to him now?  
  
They made it inside the police headquarters, only to be stopped by a guard on a long, narrow hallway. “We’re sorry, Agent Kirkland, but our special holding cells are all full.”  
  
Agent Kirkland scoffed. “This little trash doesn’t merit anything special. Where are the regular cells? Those will be enough.”  
  
The guard motioned to another to watch his post. “Right this way, Agent Kirkland.”  
  
Tryggvi was frog-marched along a series of corridors before he was shoved unceremoniously into a small, well-lit cell. The room had one other occupant, apparently in for the night because of disorderly conduct in a bar.  
  
“Well, well, well… hey there!” No. **No.** Not now… it couldn’t be…  
  
It was.  
  
The Dane winked at him from the opposite bunk and Tryggvi’s heart stopped.  
  
“Care to spare a Euro?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who thought Tryggvi would be safe in jail: : D. He’ll be fine, this stress isn’t good for his heart, but he’ll get out of there. Also: I have been waiting 32 chapters to reference that dentist appointment again. Just sayin’. Only 3 more left?! And guess what finally gets returned next time!
> 
> ALSO!: Someone else did art! It's a poster of the main characters! You can find it [here on deviantart](http://cissy-88.deviantart.com/art/Heist-and-counterheist-Poster-165384243).


	35. Home is Where the Heart Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phone conversation between a room full of idiots and another room full of idiots leads into much stress for Feliciano and Ludwig, a little sadness for Grandpa Romolo, much alcohol for Francis and Gilbert, and a little time alone for Lovino and Antonio.

They had fixed the door. Good. If they had the time to worry about architecture, then they must have had time to get everything else in order too. If he had delayed his trip back just for the idiots to be incapable of following instructions on their own… there would be hell to pay. Lovino Vargas was too tired to be understanding ( _not that he was too terribly merciful towards his men under any other circumstances_ ).  
  
He didn’t knock, he didn’t need to. He owned a spare key to every lock in Feliciano’s house. Even his diary, although only God knew why Lovino would ever want to read that shit. It was probably all indecipherable ramblings… mixed in with award-winning poetry.  
  
Lovino was not jealous of Feliciano’s talents. He was not.  
  
What Lovino _was_ , was confused. Because when he stepped into the front room, he was greeted with the sight of about fifteen backs, as men of varying height and stature stared at the stairs that led to the service elevator, and not at the front door. Every single one of them. They really expected him to come slinking back to his own brother’s home like a rat? Fuck no. He’d taken the surface streets because he _could_.  
  
“Feliciano.”  
  
The men didn’t turn as one. Some ignored the voice behind them, and continued to watch the stairs at the opposite end of the room. Some, ( _like Antonio and… and was that his grandfather watching too?_ ) twisted around rapidly, still slightly paranoid about strangers and safety. Some, like Feliciano ( _truthfully, only Feliciano_ ), turned twice. First, a slight turn of the head, just to check, because “ve, someone called for me?” And then, the realization. Feliciano turned, slowly, suspended in time.  
  
He ran.  
  
He threw himself at his older brother, arms wide, tears beginning…  
  
Only to fall face-first onto the cold stone floor. Lovino had extensive experience with his brother’s habits and mannerisms. He had seen the hug coming from far, far away. Usually, he indulged Feliciano. Usually he let himself be thrown to the ground ( _other times he was just too slow to see it coming or not fast enough to get out of the way, but… that wasn’t his fault!_ ). But not this time. He had a few things to say to Feliciano first.  
  
Lovino picked his crying, now for a different reason ( _“Lovi, that hurt!”_ ), brother up from the floor by his collar. “You fucking little moron; if you ever let something like this happen to you again I’ll kill you!”  
  
Feliciano wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. “But Lovi, ve, it wasn’t my fault!”  
  
He shook Feliciano around for good measure. “I don’t care!”  
  
“That’s Lovino?” Romolo stared, dumbfounded, at his bickering grandsons. He had been fully prepared to shoot the intruder with the terrible timing. He could feel, from the tension in the room, that the others had been prepared to do the same thing. But now, with Feliciano trying to trap the stranger in a hug, Romolo realized that the stranger really wasn’t so strange after all. Just unexpected. Just dressed differently. In fact, Lovino didn’t look very strange at all, by that point. Romolo had just passed over his distinctive features and had immediately labeled him a threat. He had to stop doing that. He could focus on Lovino too. He _could_.  
  
Romolo was beaten to any display of affection by his former employee, who realized that Lovino was in the room next after Feliciano, and who was slightly more successful in his jump-tackle expression of love ( _“Loviiiii!”_ ). Antonio brought both Vargas brothers to the floor with his enthusiasm, but he didn’t care.   
  
Lovino did. “Both of you: get off of me!”  
  
By that time, the various men loitering around the room were all clued in. “Boss!” “Mr. Lovino!”  
  
But there was something not quite right, still, which aggravated Lovino immensely. He’d made _plans_ , dammit. He’d worked wonders with a miniscule timeframe. So where were his men? He looked to his grandfather. “Oi. Where are mine?”  
  
Romolo always took the worst into consideration, planned for it, because the worst often became the truth. That tendency was what had kept him alive for so long. “You don’t know?” That couldn’t mean anything good.  
  
With the last of the spiteful energy he had still clinging to his bones, Feliciano shot a terrifying glare at the man with the blue tie ( _“how did he manage to be the only one in the room to do that, ve?”_ ). The man, who had raised his finger as if to make an interjection, stilled and faded back into the background. Feliciano hadn’t solved any problems, but he _had_ bought himself some time.  
  
He squeezed his brother around his middle. “Thank you for rescuing my gold Lovi, ve, it was very nice of you!”  
  
Lovino was ready to get up. He was also ready to kick Antonio in the shins for bowling him over and making him drop his bag to the floor. If it was damaged… Suddenly, a hand entered his line of vision. It was his grandfather’s. “Need a hand?”  
  
“Not from you.”  
  
Antonio winced. He knew about his old Boss’s troubles with his new Boss. With Lovino. “You should listen to your grandfather, Lovi. He means well.” Lovi was lucky enough to have such a big family that cared so much for him; he shouldn’t be wasting any of the time he could be using to spend with them!  
  
Romolo beamed, and pulled his grandson up without his permission anyway. “I knew I always liked you.” He didn’t risk a hug. He gave Lovino a peck on the cheek instead ( _Romolo Vargas was a man who loved to live dangerously_ ).  
  
Antonio jumped up from the floor on his own. “Thanks Mr. Vargas!”  
  
“As interesting as this _private_ ,” Lovino looked at each of the surrounding men straight in the eye. They quickly resumed their previous work, at double the speed, “conversation is, it’s been a long day. And I’m tired.” He poked Antonio on the shoulder. “You. Pick up that,” he pointed at his duffel bag, “and follow me.”  
  
And he would have left too, without another word to his grandfather ( _who was stupid, and old, and was he staring at Antonio’s ass?_ ) or his brother ( _who was giggling into his phone at a kilometer a second_ ). Except the years had given Lovino Vargas an unconscious internal translator for his brother’s speech patterns. He couldn’t turn it off if he tried. And when he heard the name ‘Ludwig,’ he was glad he hadn’t quite left yet. He had a few choice words he wanted to share with Ludwig Beilschmidt.  
  
Showing a dexterity and speed that he never seemed to be able to demonstrate when it was actually necessary, Lovino sped over towards his smiling brother and yanked his cell phone out of his hands. He had a few choice words that he wanted to share, and they started with “You **fucker**.”  
  
An unfamiliar voice responded. “What the hell? _This_ is Vargas?”  
  
Feliciano scrambled up from where he had been sitting on the floor, looking like he’d been caught in the act. What act? Some unsavory, Germanic act. Yeah. That sounded right. Right as in correct. Because unsavory Germanic acts were _wrong_ and it was Lovino’s duty as the overbearing older brother to save Feliciano from them. “Brother, give that back!”  
  
Lovino ran out of Feliciano’s reach, phone safe in his grip. “You’ve been telling people about me? Fuck, you should know better than that by now.” At four years old, Feliciano had been a stupid little idiot who liked to play tea party and dress-up and talk to the neighbors about how his father made a living. Initially, only Lovino had been punished, because he was older and should have kept his little brother in line. When Feliciano had turned five, he had been punished as well, for his loose mouth. After seeing the betrayal in Feliciano’s teary eyes as their father locked him in the basement overnight, Lovino had resolved to never let Feliciano dance through life without knowing the repercussions his words could bring. He’d let Feliciano pretend. He’d let Feliciano act carefree. But below it all, Feliciano had to understand that there were things he couldn’t talk about, couldn’t know about, couldn’t think about. It was better that way.   
  
That way he could never be hurt by the surprise.  
  
He heard a low rumble on the other line. “Ah…” Now _that_ sounded more like Beilschmidt.  
  
The original voice continued, loud and obnoxious. “I have no idea _why_ he’s so smitten with you; you know you seem a lot cuter in pictures, Feliciano Vargas.”  
  
Before Lovino had the chance to scream or attempt to snap the phone in half, Antonio came to both the phone’s and Feliciano’s rescue. Sensing that Lovino was about to explode in anger ( _that was one of the Lovi-senses he was well used to, and didn’t mind_ ), he snatched Feliciano’s phone away and apologized into it. “Hey! Whoever this is… Feliciano’s friend, right?” With his other arm, he picked Lovino up and threw him over his shoulder. In Antonio’s mind, it made sense. In the future, when he _actually_ thought about it, the action would embarrass him ten thousand times over. “I’m sorry about that; I couldn’t keep hold of Lovi.”  
  
What. The. Hell. Lovino screamed in frustration and beat his hands against Antonio’s back. The freak was too strong for him to wriggle loose. He didn’t even think about how much damage his image was taking in a room full of Russo flunkies and his own grandfather. “Antonio, you fucker, let go of me!”  
  
The voice on the other line drew in a surprised breath. “Toni?”  
  
Antonio didn’t mind Lovino’s fists ( _it was like a massage! The kind with hitting!_ ). Because that voice sounded _really_ familiar. “Eh? Gil?”  
  
There was a little static, shuffling noise before another, amused, voice rang into his ear. “And Francis too.”  
  
Feliciano didn’t want to get anywhere near his brother’s flailing arms. But it was _his_ phone and _his_ conversation. “Ve, Antonio, can I have my phone back?”  
  
Wow, Gilbert and Francis? Both? That was amazing! He hadn’t heard from them in forever! Antonio wondered how they were doing and how they’d met up again. And on the same day he’d seen Francis again too! What a coincidence… he really didn’t want to give the phone in his hand back, even though Lovino was swearing and Feliciano was pleading. Instead, he punched the speakerphone button and turned up the volume. “There. That fixes it!”  
  
Across town, the somewhat quiet conference room erupted into the level of sound only possibly achieved by two very distraught Italian men. But there were more important things to worry about. “You know Lud’s little slice of Italy, Toni?”  
  
Toni’s voice shone like liquid sunbeams. Gilbert had missed it, and had sought to replace it, over the years, with the only other liquid happiness he knew of: beer. “Of course! He’s my boss’s brother!”  
  
A new voice joined the fray, this one older. Gravelly. “So you really quit, boy? This is it?”  
  
The next words were muffled, not spoken at the phone. “Sorry Mr. Vargas.” Wait. How many Vargases were over there? Maybe he should ask. “Lovino here is the one I was telling you about, Francis!”  
  
When Francis Bonnefoy had recognized the voice swearing in outrage, his first instinct had been to run. He did not want to be associated with any sort of unsavory criminal in the middle of police headquarters, no matter how much he was relieved that Romano, the bratty little child, wasn’t dead in tunnel somewhere. If _Romano_ was alright, then the others had to be. They had to ( _entirely because they were far more capable than a little brat like Romano_ ).

As the conversation went on, Francis realized something was out of place. Something was not entirely right, and that something, beyond the chaos and the shouting and the coincidence of hearing from Antonio twice in the same day, had a lot to do with Lotte’s little informant. He sounded different over the phone. More petulant. But older. More emotional. Different.

Antonio had called him, Romano, Lovino over the phone. Lovino was the name of Veneziano’s brother. Veneziano’s brother was in the Mafia. So was his grandfather… **shit**. Francis’s mind ran full circle as he realized into how much interconnected trouble he’d just dug himself. Romano was Lovino was Veneziano’s brother, and Veneziano was Feliciano was Ludwig’s hot little something, and Ludwig was Gilbert’s brother. And Gilbert was working with Eyebrows and Alfred. And Antonio was back too. And in love with Romano.

And Francis was screwed.

He needed leverage. He needed some way to escape from the conversation, to fly under the radar, to _not be caught_.

He couldn’t disguise his voice: Gilbert would call him out on it, even if Antonio didn’t notice. He couldn’t say nothing, Antonio would pester him until he said _something_. But… perhaps Francis could work that to his advantage. Perhaps Antonio was just insane for getting close to such a whiny little… but maybe that insanity could bring Francis through. Maybe Romano had a little of that insanity too. Maybe Romano had more things to worry about than Francis did. “Is… that so.” No. This wasn’t all bad; Francis could salvage this situation. He just needed Rom—Lovino to think that he held the upper hand. He nodded at Gilbert, who still held his little brother’s phone. “Toni’s boyfriend.”  
  
Several things happened at once.  
  
Feliciano swooped in for a hug, phone forgotten. “Ve! Congratulations Lovi, Antonio!”  
  
Lovino spluttered. “I— I never…!”  
  
Gilbert scratched his head, confused. “I always thought you were straight.”  
  
Romolo blinked, even more confused. “What about the girl you were pining over?”  
  
Antonio stood, the very definition of confused ( _but that wasn’t too terribly different from his usual state so he was able to stay calm. This conversation sounded familiar, at least_ ). “What girl?”   
  
Lovino, on the other hand, looked truly murderous ( _more so than he had originally_ ) as he stopped trying to twist himself out of Antonio’s grip. Antonio should have taken the apparent docility as a major warning ( _he didn’t_ ). “ ** _What girl_**.”  
  
Francis laughed, terribly amused by the chaos he had caused and glad for the control he had won. Would ‘Romano’ be worrying about betraying secrets now? Perhaps, but the chances were lower if Francis kept throwing him off his guard, threatening to betray Lovino’s _own_. It was a dangerous game, baiting him ( _while Francis knew how to swim, he did not know how to swim with cement shoes_ ). It was _exhilarating_. “It appears you’ve learned to play the field as you’ve aged, my old friend.”  
  
“Francis? I already knew how to play football in school.” Antonio frowned into the phone. “And why are we talking about football anyway? I thought we were talking about Lovino and me.”  
  
Lovino groaned and covered his eyes with his hands. Maybe if he couldn’t see the world then everything else would just… would just go away. “Just shut up, stupid.”  
  
“So there never was a girl…” Old, battered cogwheels began to move in Romolo Vargas’s mind. Things he had taken for truth began to realign as reality imposed itself on his mental order. But some things were more important than that. Such as outrage. “Get your grimy hands off my grandson, you filth!”  
  
The noise on the other end of Ludwig’s phone became frantic. The only clear voice was Feliciano’s shrill, panicked cry. “Grandpa! Put the knife down!”  
  
Harder to pick out was Lovino’s lower warning. “Shut up! All of you! Guns away or I’ll kill all of you in your sleep, _you know I would_.”  
  
And then multiple, foreign voices. “Sorry Boss.” How many people were over there, anyway? Was Ludwig’s little something something having a party?  
  
Shaken from his mortified silence by the prospect of Feliciano and Feliciano’s family incriminating themselves any further, Ludwig spoke. “Feliciano.”

“Ludwig?”  
  
Ludwig sighed. “I would like to introduce you to my brother, Gilbert, and his friend Francis. We are at the police station.” He let his words sink in. “My brother works for INTERPOL, and was kind enough to rescue me from the Bianchi mansion earlier today.”  
  
“You don’t say, ve… scary.”  
  
From his dry tone, Ludwig assumed Feliciano had gotten it. “Exactly.”

“Lud, quiet.” Gilbert waved his hands at his weird little brother. Why was Ludwig bothering with introductions now? Those could wait for later. “What were you guys saying about guns and bosses?”  
  
Antonio was both sneaky and sly. “…it’s an idiom in Italian, Gil. Didn’t you know? It means ‘stop being so disorderly or… or I will get upset.’ Lovi likes his order.” Or maybe he wasn’t.  
  
But Gilbert wasn’t either. “I’ll take your word for it, Toni. Sheesh, sounds like Ludwig.”  
  
The fists that had stopped hitting Antonio’s spine returned, as Lovino showed his displeasure at being compared to Ludwig Beilschmidt. Antonio had not exactly missed the pain. “Ah ha, I’m sure.”  
  
What the fuck was going on? “Don’t you fucking dare compare me with that ever again!”  
  
“Ve, Lovi,” Feliciano jumped out of the line of fire again, “stop being so mean to Ludwig.”  
  
Gilbert soldiered on. “Toni? You still there? Francis and I are going out tonight! Come with: it’ll be the club all over again! Come on, we haven’t done this in forever!” He wasn’t whining; it was a manly appeal for some good, old-fashioned, quality Man Time ( _with a minor amount of hugging and crying_ ).  
  
That sounded fun! “I would but… ah… er…” But Antonio had something else in mind that sounded much more fun. He turned his head to the left, and was met with Lovino’s jean-clad ass. Yes… _much_ more fun. “Just. Raincheck.” He gulped. “You know how it is.”  
  
Francis sighed. There was no accounting for taste. Gilbert, on the other hand, cheered and smirked. “ _IIIIII_ gotcha. Good luck man, he sounds **feisty**.” And the chase was half the fun, now, wasn’t it? Why was Ludwig looking at him like he’d said something weird?  
  
“Indeed. All the luck in the world, Antonio.” He would need it, with someone like Romano. “And _Lovino_ ,” Francis addressed him, clearly and directly, for the first time. “Let me say it now and plainly. You wouldn’t want to hurt him.” Not with all I know about you. Not with all I’m prepared to tell, even at the risk of my own safety. _Boss_. “Have a _wonderful_ evening.”  
  
Lovino heard every word that wasn’t said, loud, clear and strong. He recognized the desperation behind the voice, as well as the threat, the determination, and the man. Of all the bastards on the team that had targeted Feli, Lovino hated Francis Bonnefoy the most. Almost the most. Right after Jones. “Y-you…”  
  
Romolo had had enough. He’d been around long enough to know what was being said. And not said. And not said right in front of him! “Who’s doing what now? No! I forbid it! You are **not** good enough for my grandson.” He wondered if he could get his knife back out without Feliciano noticing.  
  
Who was that talking? “Whoever you are—”  
  
Ludwig decided to be helpful before his brother brought down the ire of a meddling ( _what retirement?_ ) Mafioso upon them all. “That’s Feliciano’s grandfather, Gilbert.”  
  
Was that the ‘respect your elders!’ tone again? Psh. Elders were old. That was it. “Feliciano’s gramps then. Toni’s great: couldn’t ask for a better son-in-law.” Gilbert looked over at Ludwig from the corner of his eye. “‘Cept for my brother. He could give Toni a run for his money.”  
  
Back at the mansion, Antonio was hurt. “Hey!”  
  
While Ludwig wanted to curl up under the conference table and die. “ _Gilbert._ ”  
  
What were they getting upset about? “Just sayin’!”  
  
A light voice trilled over the phone line. “Ve, you should listen to him, grandpa.”  
  
Ludwig wasn’t surprised but he shouted anyway. “Feliciano!”

“What?”  
  
This couldn’t be. How could he not have seen it? Feliciano was just artistic and free-spirited! Lovino was well on his way to building a track record almost as impressive as Romolo’s own at various brothels around the country! How could it be that “Grandpa Romolo’s favorites are both gay?” It shocked and upset him more than it should have ( _what with his own sexual adventures_ ). “But where will my great-grandchildren come from?” And there. That was the heart of the matter. Who was Romolo supposed to cuddle and hug and be there for from start to finish if his boys didn’t make him a new Vargas to find his redemption in?  
  
Lovino went still again. Fucking old man… “How many bastards do you have, you bastard? Ask one of them.” He was _not_ the bastard’s breeding stock, goddammit!  
  
Romolo couldn’t win ( _“Lovi…”_ ), but Antonio felt a secret thrill flare up inside him ( _“Lovi!”_ ). Lovino had defended him. Them. …Sort of.  
  
And maybe it was then that Francis knew things would turn out. Roman— Lovino didn’t outright deny his involvement or affections ( _wouldn’t Erzsi be pleased…_ ), and he still hadn’t said anything about his activities over the past few days. Francis relaxed. And when Francis was relaxed, he was playful. “…Lovi? What _foul_ language.”  
  
Stupid fucking Francis who he wasn’t even supposed to fucking recognize. “Shut up. _I don’t know you_ , but I’d prefer it if you minded your own business. And You!” maybe they couldn’t tell who he was talking to from his words, it being a phone conversation, but Gilbert and Francis turned to look at Ludwig anyway, purely from the amount of spite in Lovino’s tone. “Beilschmidt. _Ludwig_. Get back here. I have something I need you to do.”  
  
Ludwig hoped that didn’t include ‘get shot in the head for allowing my little brother to be inconvenienced in any way.’ He was reminded of the first time he met Lovino, and their conversation that day. He hoped Feliciano knew that he had… cared… before he died. “Alright.”  
  
Feliciano clapped his hands together. In a moment of true sneakiness, he also snatched the phone right out of Antonio’s hand after Antonio finally put Lovino down. “Yay! And then you can meet Grandpa again except, ve, this time he’s going to keep his hands to himself, right?”  
  
Romolo’s words didn’t betray the unease still permeating his expression. Maybe he’d liked Antonio; but _not for Lovino_. “Ah hah, you ask so much from me Feli.” Speaking of Antonio and Lovino… “Hey, wait, where are you two going? Get back here!”  
  
Suddenly, the only thing the men in the conference room could hear was Feliciano’s voice. He must have turned off the speakerphone function. “Bye bye Ludwig! I should probably hang up now before you hear Lovi saying too many more mean things. Kiss!”  
  
“Kiss.” Ludwig looked up at Francis’s cough. His lips were still pressed to the bottom of his phone. I—it was a cultural thing! “Don’t look at me like that.”  
  
Gilbert sighed. “It looks like it’s only two for Man Night, huh Francis?”  
  
“Maybe three.” They’d forgotten something in the chaos of that very enlightening phone conversation. “You said you had my manservant hidden somewhere within these walls?”  
  
Oh yeah, that was right! Gilbert was still at work! “Yeah, yeah. I’ll lead you to him. You can just show yourself out, Lud. The forms are in the office straight to your left as you leave this room.” Gilbert remembered something the Commissioner had told him, once. “Just promise you won’t sue any of us for emotional trauma and say that you’ll stay in town for a bit just in case and you’re good to go.” He grinned. “Off for another ‘work trip,’ yeah?”  
  
…he was never going to let that go, was he? Fine. There were things Ludwig would never let go of either. “Please don’t allow him to drown in his own bile, Francis.”  
  
Francis laughed, a light, airy chuckle as he pushed his old friend out of the room and towards where Vash was waiting ( _“that was only a close call Lud. And it wasn’t my fault!”_ ). “I will try my hardest. Ludwig, it was lovely to meet you.”  
  
For the first time in days, Ludwig blushed. “Ah. Well.” What sort of man must Francis think him after an introduction like that?  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Lovino had finally gotten Antonio to put him down. He’d gotten Antonio to stop staring at him and pick up the damn bag, and he’d almost gotten away from Feliciano’s foyer before his plans were thwarted. Again. Shit, why did his grandfather have to be so athletic?  
  
Romolo had seen his grandson leaving and for once he didn’t watch him go. Instead, he let his instincts rule and flew after him. Lovino couldn’t walk if Grandpa was holding onto his ankles, right? “Lovi, just wait for a moment!”  
  
Was this really happening? Antonio had always thought of Mr. Vargas as his boss; the cool older voice on the phone that gave him his orders and listened patiently when he spent five minutes talking about what Lovino had had for breakfast that day. “Uh… Mr. Vargas? Do you need any help?” That was not to say he’d do it, whatever it was. Not if he didn’t want to… wow. Antonio felt free, for the first time since he’d joined Mr. Vargas’s little subsection of the Russo family. It was an illusion, as he still had to answer to Lovi ( _in the back of his mind he knew he’d be able to get away with a lot more now, even more than Mr. Vargas had let him get away with_ ). But it was what he felt.  
  
“Get off.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I’ll kick you. Your hands are busy right now; I’ll kick you in the head and there’s nothing you’ll be able to do about it.”  
  
Romolo’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “You wouldn’t kick your fragile old grandfather, would you?” So maybe he was being a little dramatic. Romolo Vargas was a dramatic man.  
  
So were his grandsons. “Yes.”  
  
This needed to be cut short. First because Antonio didn’t want anyone to come to blows when they should be happy that the worst of it was over. And second because he felt a little self-conscious standing out in the entryway. The other men had been listening to the conversation too… what must they think of him? Did they think he was just trying to screw The Boss to garner more favor? Did they think he was a freak because he wanted to screw The Boss at all? Would they still talk to him? Would—  
  
 **SMACK**  
  
Antonio would never know what Lovino had said to get his grandfather to release his legs and stand. He would never know how many times both men had tried to get his attention by calling his name. All he would remember would be the twin slaps that hit both sides of his head at once.  
  
 _Ow._  
  
“What was that for?!”  
  
“Pay attention, you moron.” Lovino gave his grandfather a wary nod and walked off further into the house, dragging Antonio along behind him. “We’re leaving.”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
The first thing Lovino did when he entered his favorite guest room in his brother’s house was peel off his shirt and throw it at Antonio’s head. It hit him square in the face, just as he crossed the threshold carrying Lovino’s duffel. Antonio brushed it off and set it onto a side table, before closing the door behind him and setting Lovino’s bag onto the bed. “Lovi, what was that for?”  
  
Lovino looked up from across the room, where he was already working on unbuttoning his pants. “I hate sleeping with clothes on.”  
  
Antonio loved his life, sometimes. He began to take off his tie. Gently. It was the only one he had in the city. It wouldn’t do to tear it. “Me too!”  
  
The jeans missed Antonio’s face and ended up straddling his shoulder. Antonio flung them away and moved to hurry with his own clothes; all Lovi had on now were his boxers! Antonio was falling behind, he didn’t have the time to be nice with his clothes anymore. He had to hurry up! So off went Antonio’s button-down ( _crumpled in a corner_ ). His undershirt went sailing ( _straight onto a picture frame_ ). He had just begun working on his own belt buckle when something red and soft tapped him on the nose.  
  
It was a carnation. “Here. Take it.”  
  
Antonio stared down at the flower, and then up at the barely dressed man holding it out to him. “Lovi?” Where had he pulled _that_ out from?  
  
Lovino stood. And he waited. And _waited_. “It’s for you.” He waggled the bloom a little underneath Antonio’s nose. Antonio had looked at the flower, the flower Lovino had gone to so much trouble to pick out ( _“Lovino Vargas you had goddamn better have taken that hit off—” “Yeah. Uh. Lotte… I need your help…”_ ). He had noticed it. So why wasn’t he accepting it?! “Shit, just take it!”  
  
There weren’t any vases in the room Lovino had chosen. Maybe Antonio could put it on a table and hope he didn’t forget about it? Hope it didn’t wither? But why in the world had Lovino gotten him a flower? “It’s beautiful, thank you.”  
  
Lovino turned his back and busied himself tossing his open duffel bag onto the floor, away from the bed. His open bag… oh! So he had been keeping the flower in the bag? Was that why he had been delayed in arriving back at the mansion? That was weird. “…that’s it?”  
  
Antonio frowned, flower in hand. “Huh?”  
  
“You said it didn’t work so well when both people didn’t know the meanings.” Lovino still wasn’t looking at him. What was so interesting about the bedspread? “A-and if they do? Both know?”  
  
Now wait just a minute. Antonio knew he didn’t always come to the quickest conclusions ( _or the most correct ones_ ). But this sounded like… it sounded like…! “Lovi… did you look up flower meanings for me?”  
  
Antonio took a pillow to the face, but he took it with love. “It means ‘my heart aches for you’ okay? How much clearer do I have to fucking be?!” Lovino knelt on the bed, hair sticking up in all directions, covers mussed all around him. He looked tired. He looked furious. He looked tense.  
  
He looked perfect.  
  
So what if Antonio had immediately known what red carnations signified? How could he have guessed that Lovino would have known it too? Lovi didn’t seem the type to care about those sorts of things. The gesture reminded Antonio that there were plenty of things that he still didn’t know about Lovino. And he had plenty of time to find them all out. Because Lovi had gotten home safely. He was okay and so was Antonio and there was a bed and they were both only half clothed… “Oh I don’t know; it looked a little pink to me…” He chuckled. Would Lovi have looked up other flowers and colors and arrangements? Or would he just have zeroed in on what he wanted to say, not bothering with the rest?  
  
The carnation was blood red. Was Antonio insane? “What?”  
  
Apparently the second. “Never mind. I’ll teach you someday.”  
  
Satisfied with that answer, Lovino buried himself under the mess of covers he had made on the room’s lone bed. He was ready for a _long_ nap now that all his business for the day had been settled. “Whatever. Do what you want.”  
  
Antonio sat down on the bed. He still had one more question. “Lovino?”  
  
A “what?” rose out of the sheets.  
  
One more question. That first one hadn’t counted. “Does this mean…?” He paused. He didn’t know what to say.  
  
“Finish your _damn_ sentences.”  
  
While Antonio tried to find the words to fit the maelstrom of his thoughts, Lovino rolled over to face him. He stared at Antonio for a second, before shooting out an arm and dragging him down onto the bed. It took a few moments, but he finally got himself comfortable after ripping off Antonio’s pants and throwing them across the room. After not thinking about it at all, not at _all_ , he settled on grabbing Antonio around the middle in a hold that could be interpreted as a hug by some. Lovino pressed his face into Antonio’s chest, and stopped moving, content to just listen to the moron’s heartbeat.  
  
Antonio was reminded, as he drew a tight breath, of the way he had woken up just that morning. Had it really been such a short time before? It seemed like years had passed since he’d touched down in Venice. Not days. “Do you… you know. With me?”  
  
Lovino mumbled his reply into an area somewhere in the vicinity of Antonio’s sternum. “…what the fuck _else_ is ‘my heart aches for you’ supposed to mean?” Antonio wasn’t really that dull, was he?  
  
The arms around his chest were thin, but surprisingly strong. Maybe he could suggest Lovino let up just a little bit? Or would that kill all Antonio’s hopes of getting another round in before morning? His wallet was in his pants pocket still. And in that… “It could be an angry ache.”  
  
Lovino cracked one eye open, just enough to send Antonio a half-hearted glare. “Well it’s not. Now shut up.” He closed his eye again, and his face became peaceful, even though Antonio knew he couldn’t possibly be sleeping yet.  
  
Not wanting to disturb him either way, Antonio gave up on his victory sex plans ( _for now!_ ) and pulled his own arms around the man lying half on top of him. His Boss? His boyfriend? His…? “Good night.” He tightened his arms just a little more than he needed to and settled his head on Lovino’s hair. Maybe Lovi would get the message then? “I love you.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Lovino sighed, almost asleep. He noticed Antonio’s hold but didn’t bother commenting on it, because unlike _some_ people, he wasn’t a wuss. So what if he was a little… a little clingy. Others had complained and had gotten kicked out of his bed as a result. As far as Lovino was concerned, Antonio had missed his chance for either. “Love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gold is back! Lovino is back! Love has been confessed ( _the fluff! the cheese! It will consume us all!_ )! Again! More flowers! Grandpa showed that he cares ( _in the most obnoxious way_ )! And I failed a bonus with Francis being too connect-the-dotsy! Whoo!
> 
> Shit that was longer than it was supposed to be.
> 
> Also: I was really tempted to leave the phone conversation as pure dialogue, but figured that’d be too confusing. I think it still might be too confusing. If so, just point stuff out and I’ll clarify. Double Also: Holy shit it’s only the endings now. Shit. Next up’s more jail time. Triple Also: Gilbert mentioned something about the BBC = read the first chapter of Happy Days. That'll clear things up. Otherwise, don't worry about it. **2015 edit:** EXCEPT YOU CAN'T BECAUSE I NEVER WROTE IT


	36. Jail, and How Tryggvi, Eduard and Vash Get Out of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tryggvi and Eduard are each allowed one phone call from jail, Berwald is calm, Tino takes coffee with his vodka, and Vash is a lightweight.

THWACK

“Oi, oi, no need to throw things at me.” The Dane picked Francis’s wallet up from where it had fallen and rubbed his forehead. Tryggvi pushed himself as far as he could into the opposite corner of the room. He had to get away. He had to get as far away as he could, because even though he’d given the Dane ( _Francis’s_ ) money, there was no telling what the Dane would do to him now that both were trapped. “Scared? That’s great! It’s been so long but you’re still terrified. Isn’t this fun?”  
  
Tryggvi shook his head, quickly. He didn’t trust his voice.  
  
The Dane chuckled and began to flip through the bills in Francis’s wallet. “The way I see it, things can go a few ways from here.” He took out a hundred Euro note and sniffed it. “I can’t rough you up too bad, not with them watchin’ us.” He put the note back into the wallet and the wallet into his coat pocket. “But you’ve grown up real nice, and it’s natural for guys to do these sorts of—”  
  
Tryggvi screamed, like a small, frightened child and threw himself at the door of the cell. “Come back! Guards! Anyone! Don’t I get a phone call? I demand my phone call! **Help!** ”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
The guard shoved Tryggvi towards the phone. “Make it quick.”  
  
 _Ring._  
  
 _Ring._  
  
 _Ring._  
  
Maybe he wasn’t awake. Shit. What was Tryggvi supposed to do if he wasn’t awake?  
  
 _Ri—_  
  
“…’s 3 in the morning.”  
  
Thank God. “Yeah.”  
  


“Tryggvi?”  
  
So he remembered. That was good. If he hadn’t remembered Tryggvi’s voice… Tryggvi would have lost his last chance. He would have had to go back to that cell without any hope. “Good morning, Mr. Oxenstierna.” Now was the moment of truth. Tryggvi held his breath until he remembered that he was the one who had to explain things. “You said I could call you any time I needed your help, right?”  
  
“Just a sec.” There were muffled shuffling noises until Tryggvi heard a click and then there were loud shuffling noises. Mr. Oxenstierna had turned on the speakerphone. “Tino. ‘s Tryggvi. Say hi.”  
  
The angry policeman motioned for Tryggvi to hurry the hell up. He could wait.  
  
“Whazzat? Berwald, what are you sticking a phone in my face for…urgh…” Mr. Väinämöinen was apparently not a middle of the night person.  
  
“It’s Tryggvi.”  
  
Perhaps now would be the time to start speaking again. “Hi Mr. Väinämöinen.” It was always good to be polite to Mr. Väinämöinen; not because he could sway Mr. Oxenstierna into doing what Tryggvi wanted, but because making Mr. Väinämöinen angry was a bad idea in general. “Mr. Oxenstierna, I need your help.” Tryggvi took the silence on the other end to mean that Mr. Oxenstierna was listening and that Mr. Väinämöinen had fallen back asleep. The policeman started to tap his foot impatiently against the floor. But Tryggvi wasn’t going to rush this phone call; there wasn’t anyone else he could rely on. The officer could just get over it.  
  
Tryggvi took a deep breath. He had to keep it simple. He didn’t have much time. “I’m in prison. In Venice. Can you bail me out?”  
  
“ **What the hell?!** ” Oh, so Mr. Väinämöinen was awake after all.  
  
“Tryggvi.”

“Yeah?” Now the irate policeman was motioning over the really mean, disgruntled looking detective. It was the same detective who had brought Tryggvi in from the mansion. He didn’t look capable of getting over anything.  
  
“We’ll be there as soon as we can.”  
  
“Thanks, Mr. Oxenstierna.”  
  
 _Click._  
  
Berwald Oxenstierna put the phone back in its cradle on his nightstand and looked at the lump of covers that denoted where his husband was pretending to be asleep. Tino had never made it a secret that he didn’t like Tryggvi, but Berwald had his suspicions that his husband cared more than he let on. Now that Tryggvi was in jail for… well, for whatever reason, perhaps Tino would be more willing to help him…? Berwald put his hand on the center of the lump and shook it. “You’ve been wanting a vacation.”  
  
The blankets grunted. “Mmf. Not going.”  
  
He was impossible when he hadn’t had his coffee yet; that plus being woken up early on his day off must have been hard. But Berwald wasn’t about to give up. He could be very persuasive. “Heard Italy’s nice this time of year.”  
  
The blankets snorted. “…Iduncare…”  
  
Berwald sat up off of the bed and began to simultaneously dress himself and gather the supplies he would need for travel together. “Can make the early flight out of Pajala.”  
  
Tino pressed his face into his pillow, as if to kiss his good night’s sleep goodbye, and vaulted out of bed, letting the warm, comfortable covers fall to the floor. “You are making this up to me.”  
  
Berwald already had half a suitcase packed with carefully folded shirts and socks. “Course.”

“You finish up in here, then.” Tino grabbed a blanket from the floor to use as a cape. Satisfied that he would be warm enough to make it to the kitchen, he stole Berwald’s slippers for good measure and gave his husband a peck on the cheek. “I’ll make all our reservations. It’s going to be a pain at such a last minute.” He would have to call in some favors.  
  
And Berwald knew that Tino would be calling in favors. And he didn’t like it. “Nothing illegal.” Berwald always put his foot down on the illegal things. It had made their first few dates interesting, back when Tino hadn’t exactly been used to living a clean life.  
  
“Don’t you worry your fluffy head about it; just pack what you think we’ll need.” Tino looked at their kitchen clock and sighed. He wouldn’t have time to make himself breakfast at this rate, not if they wanted to make their flights. Damn that kid was a pain. He’d told Berwald a thousand times that Tryggvi wouldn’t amount to anything good and now what? The kid had gotten himself locked up and they were dashing to the other end of Europe to save him from something he had probably brought on himself?   
  
Tino wanted to go back to bed. But Berwald was in their bedroom with the most serious face he had in his arsenal, deciding which ties to bring to Venice and Tino just _couldn’t_. And if he couldn’t get out of it then he was damn well going to make the trip run like clockwork. _‘I’ll do what I have to and nobody will ruin this or so help me they will end up naked in a fjord in Norway with a puffin eating their entrails and a tiger sitting on their face.’_  
  
He picked up his cellphone and began to make a series of calls. Such was his reputation, still, that his contacts didn’t even blink ( _even as they broke out in cold sweats, to hear that voice again_ ) when he demanded transportation and lodgings for himself and his ‘cuddly lion.’ Fast.  
  
Or else.  
  
Four hours later, Tino watched his ‘cuddly lion’ stare out the plane window at the clouds below. The steward had come by minutes beforehand, and Tino had foolishly accepted the coffee they had given him ( _even first class and they **still** don’t get it right…_ ). Berwald hadn’t said much since they had boarded their latest flight. Tino wasn’t sure if it was fear for the kid, anticipation for their trip, or if Berwald just didn’t have anything to say. The latter happened often. Either way they were stuck with this ‘vacation’ now and Tino was going to make the best of it. All he had to do was think on the bright side and maybe all of a sudden there would be one.

“Venice isn’t such a bad place for a vacation. Like the mountains. But flat and wet.” Berwald turned back to Tino. “You’ll like it.”  
  
Tino tried to make himself comfortable in his chair and failed. He hated being confined. He hated being forced to sit for so long. He hated traveling. He did not hate Tryggvi; frankly he didn’t feel very strongly about the kid at all. But he still couldn’t understand why Berwald wanted to do this. “He’s not your son, you know.”   
  
“Not my fault.”  
  
“…you’d make a weird father, Berwald.”  
  
Tino had gotten good at reading Berwald’s expressions. If someone had told him, years before, that Berwald actually had more than one Tino would have politely stopped serving drinks to the ( _obviously trashed_ ) fool. But with years together, he could tell exactly what that slightly arched eyebrow meant and he didn’t approve of it one bit. “Thanks. You’d make a good mother.”  
  
“…alternatively, _you_ could be the woman.” Tino raised both eyebrows and gave a nod to the intricately knitted sweater he was wearing, the embroidered handkerchief sticking out of his bag and the lovingly quilted blanket draped across his lap that Berwald had brought for the flight. They were homey. They were cozy.  
  
They had all been made by Berwald.  
  
Berwald blinked, a magazine on the tray table in front of him and his knitting needles in hand ( _security had tried to confiscate them. Tried_ ). “Wouldn’t be a father then.”  
  
Tino let his head fall onto his own tray table, careful not to disrupt the mug full of ‘coffee’ and sighed. “It’s too early for this.”  
  
“Relax.” Berwald ran his left hand through Tino’s hair. How did Berwald always know the right thing to do and why did he always wait for the worst possible moments to do them? Tino might have appreciated the gesture on the ground, back home in their dark little kitchen. Not in a flying metal death box a kilometer in the sky. No thanks. He made to brush Berwald’s hand away, but thought the better of it and grabbed hold of it instead.  
  
“Did I mention that you owe me for this?”  
  
Berwald used his free hand to tap his cheek. “My turn to cook?” To Berwald, it was always time to joke. Maybe. There were still those times when Tino wasn’t quite sure if Berwald was joking or not.  
  
“Try for the rest of our lives.”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Even more hours later and they were on the ground and in the sunlight and standing right in front of their destination. Venice police headquarters. Tino still hadn’t gotten a decent cup of coffee. It showed. He wanted to get in, get out and get to vacationing, but he knew it would never be that simple. Tino snuck a look at Berwald. His husband stood impassively in the center of the walkway, letting the other pedestrians flow around him, not bothering with anything. Tino envied his calm ( _he also envied his height but that was another matter entirely_ ).  
  
Berwald pointed. “Go in?”  
  
“I guess we have to.” Tino led the way, appreciating the cool of the inside of the building. He wasn’t used to the heat, although it was a nice change. Maybe Venice wouldn’t be all that bad. He just had to twist a few arms first and then maybe he and Berwald could have a nice sit in a nice café and Tino wouldn’t have to shoot anyone.  
  
The receptionist looked at them warily when they entered. Tino supposed they did look a little odd; they were the only ones around wearing sweaters, after all. “Hey Berwald, could you wait out here for a second? I have to make a phone call.”  
  
He frowned. “Not long?”  
  
Tino laughed and waved his hands. “No, it won’t take me half a snowflake.” Not if those politicians knew what was good for them. It wouldn’t take long at all.  
  
Berwald nodded like that made sense and sat in one of the chairs lining the wall. “Be right here.”  
  
“Thanks.” Tino was clear of the Russian underground; that didn’t mean that there weren’t people all over the world afraid of him, and his talents, and what he knew. And while he would prefer to leave it all behind him, he had no qualms against reminding a few important people in a few high places that the Blue Death was still around and hadn’t had his coffee yet. Urgh, and that he hated traveling too. Damn planes.  
  
He walked quickly and calmly past the receptionist and locked himself into the first empty room that he saw. Security officers began to knock on his door after a minute, quite rudely, but after he had a few words with number 8 on his cell phone’s speed dial and passed the device on to them, they left him alone.  
  
Tino hadn’t missed his ability to do that; he was fine with new people trying to walk all over him ( _they all learned, eventually_ ). But it would be a lie to say that he had let his temperament mellow _too_ much. He still had a short fuse, when it came to the things that were really important to him.  
  
 _Alright. Plane food is crap. Politicians are crap. This is for Berwald and the kid._  
  
He went to speed dial number 5 next. Heads were going to roll.  
  
 _Ring_.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Out in the waiting room, Berwald waited. He waited by sitting perfectly still, perfectly upright, perfectly calm. The receptionist would have run to check if the strange man was still breathing if he didn’t look like he was planning on throwing her entrails to the birds outside. She wished an officer would come by. Or that the security team would come back from dealing with the shorter one. It was just her luck that the first man to come by her desk was neither. She still flagged him down. “Mr. Kirkland!”  
  
Peter Kirkland swirled around and pointed. “It’s Commissioner!” He registered who had called to him, quickly put his finger down and approached the receptionist’s desk. “But to a nice lady like you, it will always be Peter. What can I help you with?”  
  
She nodded over at the tall man in the corner. “Uh… it’s, it’s _him_.”  
  
Peter didn’t see what was so important. It was just some guy in sweater with reindeer on it. He wasn’t disrupting anything and he wasn’t making demands or cursing; quite nice, in Peter’s opinion, compared to the goons he had been dealing with all day. “Huh? What about him?”  
  
“Could you go see what he wants?”  
  
He shrugged and walked over to the stranger. “Why not?”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Tino exited the office he had commandeered with a notepad covered with names and phone numbers in one hand and a pencil in the other. His face was grim… until he noticed his husband playing Cat’s Cradle with a stranger in the corner of the waiting room. Then his face was merely amused. “Made a friend, Berwald?”  
  
The stranger jumped up, letting the string slide down from his fingers into a jumbled mess. His smile was clean and bright, and Tino wondered when it would be broken forever. Or maybe those were the old memories talking. “Pleasure to meet you! The name’s Peter Kirkland!”  
  
Kirkland… that was the name he had just been given. “You wouldn’t happen to be Commissioner Kirkland, the head of the INTERPOL investigations here, would you?”  
  
Peter whooped. “That’s me!” But as he pointed to his chest, he realized that he had destroyed his precious string creation. Berwald watched calmly, string still weaved around his own fingers. “Bloody fuck, I messed up the—”  
  
Berwald frowned just the slightest bit. “Language.”

“Sorry! Sorry! I was raised improperly!”  
  
“‘s no excuse for now, is it?”  
  
Peter laughed and bowed at Berwald and Tino in turn. “I suppose not. I apologize then.”  
  
Tino would have to buy Berwald a dog. That way he could get out all his parenting instincts on a lovable ball of fluff instead of on every person they met who hadn’t had a proper father figure. Otherwise Tino would never be able to take Berwald anywhere; he’d just keep picking up strays and unhappy children-at-heart until he had half the world in their kitchen calling Tino ‘Mama.’ “None taken. Listen, could you run to your office, wherever they’ve set you up, and look at your messages? You probably have a new one by now, about one of the men your agents detained earlier this morning.”  
  
Peter looked longingly down at the string in his hands. He’d really wanted to learn how to make the frog! “I guess. Why?”  
  
Tino sighed, because he didn’t want it to be true but it was. “We’re here to pick him up.”  
  
“Wait, but,” was there even bail on those criminals? “He’s an international thief on suspicion of collaborating with the Russian mob!” Why would such a nice man, what had he introduced himself as, want to let a dirty criminal go free?   
  
Berwald took it upon himself to clarify. “Misunderstanding.”  
  
Peter brushed his pants as he stood up to his full height and gave the string back to Berwald, yes that was it. Berwald. It wouldn’t hurt to do as the shorter man had asked, and to be honest, Peter was a little curious. After making sure the two would stay until he returned, he sprinted off to his makeshift office. A few minutes later, he sprinted back. “Everything appears to check out, yeah.” It was the strangest thing. His boss had sounded so confused on the message, but Peter couldn’t disobey his direct order, despite all the leeway he got in managing his operations. Peter flagged down two Italian policemen. “Get me Armo— Ar— get me the guy in cell 13-D, okay?”  
  
“Sir, which one?”  
  
What? “There should only be one. What’s he doing in an already occupied cell? He’s a max security prisoner!” Peter stopped, confused. The prisoner couldn’t be max security, because INTERPOL would never allow the injustice of letting a guilty man walk free. Right? “I mean was. Was. Because of a misunderstanding…?” Had Gilbert put things in the water again? Why was nothing making sense?  
  
A few meters away, a completely new man walked up to the receptionist, and tried to politely get her attention. “Excuse me…”  
  
He got Tino’s attention instead. “Toris?”

“Tino?”  
  
Tino smiled and pulled his old friend over to the growing group. “What are you doing here?”  
  
Toris cleared his throat, awkwardly. “I got a call from Eduard.” He exchanged a murky glance with Tino and although Berwald could guess at the gist of it, he really couldn’t understand the depths of what they were thinking. “He… got into a bit of a misunderstanding.”   
  
Peter groaned. “Another one?”  
  
Toris threw up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “I’m sorry?”  
  
“Nothing.” Peter sighed. “You’re looking for The Great and Powerful Commissioner Kirkland, aren’t you?” Toris nodded. “Then you’re looking right at him.”  
  
Alright. Toris could do this. He didn’t approve of what Eduard did for a living, but he couldn’t possibly leave him in police custody. INTERPOL custody. Whichever it was. “I’m sorry about any confusion, Commissioner. My name is Toris Lorinaitis. If you could please check your—”  
  
Peter cut him off. “Messages, right?” He motioned the three other men to follow him, when he moved deeper into the hallways of the station. After a few minutes, he disappeared into an office, only to reappear out of it with a phone in hand and a disgruntled expression. “Blimey, what’s with everybody getting let go? Well, it’s above my head.” This didn’t sit well, but Peter wasn’t a total idiot. He knew a little bit of what had to be going on. So much for justice. “Right this way then, gentlemen.”  
  
They walked along the hallways that became progressively starker. By the end of it, the walls were bare and white, and the flooring squeaked as they stepped on it. Finally, the four men reached a split in the hallway. Two guards stood on either side. “Alright, gents.” Peter beckoned one of the guards over towards the group. “This fine man, er, whoever he is, is going to be leading you,” he pointed to Toris, “to von Bock. You’ve been cleared to just take him although I really don’t get it. Anyway, have a nice day, jolly good time in Venice; just go and get out.”  
  
Toris began to walk away with the stony-faced guard, until Tino’s voice made him pause. “Toris. Tell Eduard that there’s more than this.”  
  
“Tino?”  
  
Tino frowned. It almost made him look as old as he really was. “Tell him it’s still not the end for him, but if he tries to go to me again he had better be serious. Or else.” Toris nodded and left. No one else understood the conversation, but each viewer had their own guesses.  
  
“Right…” Peter didn’t even want to know, “Follow after me, please.” He took off along the opposite corridor, the Italian officer trailing behind him. Berwald patted Tino on the shoulder before pushing him along behind the two other men. He thought better of whispering something soothing in Tino’s ear. Because despite Tino’s dark mood, they were still in enemy territory ( _Berwald found it odd, that he was thinking of a police station as enemy territory. Perhaps he needed to have another talk with Tino when they got home_ ).  
  
When the Italian officer opened the door of cell 13-D, something small and stringy flew out of it at top speed. “Mr. Oxenstierna!” Berwald let Tryggvi hug him.  
  
Something larger did not throw himself out of the cell; in fact, the Dane did quite the opposite by wrapping his coat tight around his torso and pushing his back against the far wall. “Oxenstierna… Oxenstierna?!”  
  
Berwald blinked and glowered. “You.”  
  
The Dane… was that a whimper? Tryggvi couldn’t tell because he had his face buried in Mr. Oxenstierna’s sweater and he wasn’t looking up for anything. “Get him away from me!” Yes, that was definitely a whimper.  
  
It was still too early for this. Maybe, Tino thought, it would always be too early. “Berwald…?” How was it _Berwald_ who knew all the criminals?  
  
Arthur Kirkland walked briskly up to the commotion near the end of the clean white hallway. “What’s this all about, now?”  
  
Peter grinned at his older brother. Even if he felt out of sorts at these new developments, there was no reason why he couldn’t make Arthur feel _worse_. “Orders from the top: kid gets to go. So does the other one.”  
  
What the bloody fucking hell? Not after everything they had gone through, after everything _Alfred_ had gone through to get the little buggers locked up! The monsters were leaving over Arthur’s dead body. But of course, he couldn’t exactly say that in front of others. “But!”   
  
Arthur was going red; he must be trying to keep all his cranky old whining in. “Shut it, old man! Orders from me are like almighty notices from the heavens to you! Bugger off!” It was always nice to reprimand Arthur. It made Peter feel like he was getting good revenge for their formative years.  
  
“Language.”  
  
But being reprimanded himself sucked. “…sorry.”  
  
What was going on? Why was the twitchy one out of his cell, why were those two strangers in a high-security zone and how in the world had the tall one gotten Peter to behave with class? “What the hell?!”  
  
Peter scoffed and began to shove his brother back down the corridor. “Look, just go visit Jones, right? I bet you’re dying to. Take Beilschmidt along with you. I hate to break up such a good team.” He stopped at the intersection of the hallways and waved back at Berwald. “It was nice to meet you! Stop by the receptionist’s before you leave; she’ll give you my number!” And they were gone.  
  
The pause that followed was broken by the Dane. “Why aren’t we focusing on the important things here?! Get that maniac away from me!” His eyes widened and he practically spat at Berwald, who stood stock still in the entrance, still being held by Tryggvi.  
  
Tino looked up at his husband’s face. “What’d you do to _him_?” Berwald’s usual tactics for getting back at people were often more passive-aggressive than anything else. Perhaps he’d screwed all the doors in this man’s house shut? That really wasn’t something to get so terrified about.  
  
Berwald didn’t break eye contact with the Dane, not until the Italian officer had fully closed and locked the cell again. Then he answered Tino. “Threw a chair at him, long time ago.” He smirked, recalling the incident, and slowly began to pry Tryggvi’s arms from his waist. “Deserved it.”  
  
He’d thrown a chair at someone? Tino would have to ask about that later. Much later. For now, he just wanted to leave. “Well” he clapped his hands together. “That settles things then! Thank you for everything, officer. We’ll just be going. You have a good afternoon!” He walked quickly away, back towards the entrance, not minding the running officer who was required by law to escort them out.  
  
Berwald and Tryggvi followed along behind, at a slower pace. “Tryggvi?”  
  
Tryggvi winced. “Yeah?”  
  
They passed the receptionist’s station, and Berwald collected Kirkland’s phone number. That commissioner had been an interesting person. He just wanted to learn more Cat’s Cradle, right? “No more lying.”  
  
Tryggvi heard the implied ‘no more illegal activities, you are in **so** much trouble, we are never bailing you out again, you’re grounded until you’re dead’ as well. It was nice: no one else had worried about him like that before. Not even Francis… Well. That was interesting; he hoped Francis was doing alright. And Eduard and Erzsébet and Romano ( _he looked like someone else Tryggvi had seen before… Tryggvi couldn’t place it_ ) and Alfred too. But that part of his life… Tryggvi wanted that part of his life to be over. For good. He didn’t want to work for Francis. In fact, even though he hoped Francis had gotten away ( _he would have, Francis Bonnefoy was tricky_ ), a large part of Tryggvi never wanted to see him again. But without a job, he was back to square one in fending off the Dane. Unless… “Can I stay with you?”  
  
They stepped outside. “…Tino?”  
  
Tino was already there, standing in the light, waiting. It took him two seconds to figure out what Berwald was asking, and his gut reaction was to shake his head. No. They couldn’t. They couldn’t do it because Tino didn’t want to and fuck, why did they have to look at him like a pair of melting snowmen? “Oh, no, stop it! Now you’re making me look like the bad guy!”  
  
Berwald’s eyes crinkled, as close to a smile as he usually got. He patted Tryggvi on the head. “You’ll have to pay us back.” ( _“Wait, what part of that was a ‘yes’?!”_ )  
  
Tryggvi nodded as fast as he could and stepped up between Mr. Oxenstierna and Mr. Väinämöinen. This was where he would belong; he just had to prove it. “I can work. And I won’t lie. Not anymore.” He looked Mr. Oxenstierna in the eyes. “If I can stay.”  
  
Berwald nodded. “Good.”  
  
Why did things have to happen so quickly? Tino would need time to digest everything that had happened. Maybe he could get in touch with Toris and they could complain together. That didn’t happen enough anymore. “I need my coffee. So we have a son now? Who’s going to be filling out _that_ paperwork?” Berwald and Tryggvi stared at him. “No… _no_ , don’t look at me like that. No. Both of you. Stop it. Shit, do they have kask here?” They probably didn’t. “I’ll just make some. Yeah. Alright, boys. We are starting our vacation early! Breakfast first, sightseeing later. Screw it. Viina first, then breakfast, then sightseeing.” He led the way back to the hotel, laughing hysterically all the while ( _oddly enough, it was mostly because he wasn’t old enough to have a son, no sir, and not because he didn’t want Tryggvi to be one_ ).  
  
As they walked, Tryggvi pulled on Mr. Oxenstierna’s sleeve. There was something he was dying to know. “Did you really throw a chair at him…?”  
  
“Yep. He cried.”  
  
Tryggvi, for the first time in all the time he could remember, grinned from ear to ear.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
It was cold in his cell. Cold and lonely and dark. Would Toris really come for him? Eduard was afraid that he wouldn’t. And afraid that he would. And just plain afraid. He curled into himself on the hard, uncomfortable bunk and wished that he were anywhere else.  
  
Sometime later, he heard footsteps outside his door. He wondered what time it was. Were the guards patrolling again? They came by at odd intervals, always walking slowly, with heavy footfalls. Always in pairs, if the rhythm of the noises were anything to go by. But these taps were light: light and alone. Was it really a guard? A guard wouldn’t be scratching at his door. A guard wouldn’t open it so carefully, without even a creak. A guard wouldn’t be… **_her_**. “Y-you!”  
  
She stood tall and proud and emotionless. And she beckoned to him with her words. “Eduard von Bock. You will follow me. Now.”  
  
He couldn’t deny her. Mostly because he still had a will to live, and those that denied her often ended up dead very quickly. “I-I yes. Yes, right away. Er, but my things…”  
  
She turned her back to him and glanced back along the hallway. It was quiet and empty and white. Just as it had been minutes beforehand, and just as it would be when they left. They should leave soon. She might be good but she was no miracle worker. The other guards would probably discover their comrades soon… “They held secrets. I have destroyed them.”  
  
Eduard knew he should be grateful ( _she was looking at him as though he had damn well_ better _be grateful_ ), but he was also a little saddened. Those things were important to him, not least of all his computer. It hadn’t been his main laptop; that was still in Russia. But it had been the one he had used for the duration of his time with Alfred and Francis and the rest. It had held memories. “Where are we going?”  
  
She started walking. “…my brother is missing. You will help me find him.”  
  
What could have possibly kidnapped _Ivan Braginski_? And why did Eduard have the sudden desire to start running in the opposite direction?  
  
She stopped. “Eduard von Bock?”  
  
He began to walk behind her and tried to imitate her quiet footfalls. He couldn’t quite manage it. “C-coming, Miss Natalia.”  
  
Her face was menacing, even though she barely had any expression at all. “Good.”  
  
\- - - - -

Toris stared at the dark window to the white cell that held Eduard inside of it. In front of him, the Italian officer leisurely flipped through a ring of keys. They jingled as they hit each other. The sound reminded Toris of the wind chimes in Feliks’s apartment. Such a strange thought to have. But Toris had only had strange thoughts after receiving Eduard’s call.

He and Eduard had not parted on the best of terms. Toris didn’t know if he ever wanted the cell door to open or not. But no matter what Toris wanted, life went on.

The officer found the right key.

He turned it in the lock.

He grabbed the door handle.

He pulled.

Nothing happened.

Nothing happened, because the door hadn’t been originally locked. At that point, even though the officer had yet to furiously turn the key back again, had yet to throw open the door and discover the empty cell, had yet to radio in for backup, had yet to discover his three fellow guards shot dead in a side storage room, had yet to send out the wire detailing that Eduard von Bock, murderer at large, must be caught at all costs, Toris already knew that Eduard was gone.

At the same moment, he knew that he wished the cell door had remained closed, and that the chance of Eduard had remained beyond it. But no matter what Toris wanted, life went on.

\- - - - -  
  
Vash sat in a bar, rifle next to his feet, and he didn’t know why. Well. That was a lie. His contract required him to follow Master Francis into unsavory places. Especially when unsavory people like Gilbert Beilschmidt were present. But that didn’t explain why he was sitting down and drinking too. Usually he stood in a corner and glared at the scum that tempted Master Francis into acting like scum right back.  
  
At the moment, he couldn’t manage a glare. “Master Francis. We sh-sh- must. We. You must go. Now. Not here.” The sad part was that he’d only had one glass of wine ( _this was why he never drank: it ruined his concentration, it ruined his aim and it made him act like a fool_ ).  
  
Beilschmidt clapped him on the back and Vash was afraid that he would start talking again. He did. “How about that, huh Francis? The guy wants you to leave after less than an hour? Stop being such a killjoy!”  
  
Vash needed to throw up. And soon.  
  
Master Francis put his arm around Vash’s shoulders, joining Beilschmidt in being annoying. “Vash, my dear, the night is young. Enjoy yourself! We haven’t had much time for that lately, have we…?” He trailed off, trapped in some sort of melancholy that Vash couldn’t understand. “But we shall have worlds of time for it in the future.”   
  
Beilschmidt laughed, loud and long. “Oi. Don’t get philosophical on me, Frenchie. Get some more beer in your system, that’ll sort things out!”  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
Vash would take the secret to his grave ( _or at least keep it quiet until he passed out and forgot about it_ ), but he was glad that Master Francis had returned to normal. The normal he had been back before he had met von Bock and Tryggvi and the rest. That was how Master Francis was supposed to be. That was the Master Francis who Vash had stood by for so many years, through thick and thin, serious and ridiculous, and he would think of more comparisons but the counter was hitting his forehead and everything was going black.  
  
 **THUNK**  
  
“Sheesh, Francis. It’s almost like Toni came after all.”  
  
“If by that you mean, ‘we must teach my dear Vash how to hold his liquor’ then I agree completely.”  
  
From behind his mug ( _paid for by Gilbert because whoops! Francis had misplaced his wallet_ ), Francis Bonnefoy smiled, and was content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending 1: Peter’s still just a great big kid at heart. Sweden would be a strange father; strange but good. All politicians are corrupt in heist movies. And it’s always the butler ( _except for here, where all the ‘butlers’ died. Whoops._ ). These are my explanations. Also: Toris is too nice for his own good. You will see more of him. Double Also: Finland says weird things.
> 
> Ending 2: I am a jerk, and quite content to be one. And somebody had to get The Bad Ending; that someone was Eduard. Also: Would it be ‘Natalia?’ Double Also: Belarus ex machina sounds about right.
> 
> Ending 3: Vash is more of a softy than he lets on.
> 
> Also: there have been minor to large ‘oh shit logic!fail’ moments along the length and breadth of this fill. They have been either taped together with handwaving or outright ignored. All I can say is, uh, bear with me and don’t mind the girl behind the curtain. I’ll try to sort it all out before I link this anywhere else. Any weirdness you can point out is useful to me.


	37. Draw a Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roderich and Erzsi have a storybook beginning, Feliciano is their fairy godmother, Alfred gets several visits in the hospital, Man Night occurs ( _until Antonio passes out_ ), Romolo still doesn't get it, and Lovino just wants Antonio to stop stealing his damn cell phone. In short, the story ends.

Ludwig frowned in the Vienna heat. They were lost, he was certain of it. Who had given _Roderich_ the map? “I am quite sure this is not the restaurant.”  
  
Roderich Edelstein folded the paper away, adjusted his glasses and entered the small shop in front of him without any further ado. “Nonsense, it _must_ be…”  
  
And their eyes met, once more, for the first time in months. Héderváry Erzsébet stopped waving a greeting from behind the counter of her little photography studio and Roderich Edelstein froze underneath the joyfully clanging bells in the entryway. The universe stopped. Until Feliciano accidentally knocked Roderich to the ground in his rush to get inside. “Sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean to!”  
  
The world sped up again. It rushed up to meet Roderich’s face, far too quickly. It transported Erzsébet halfway across her shop before she could even blink. And then, it paused, just as Erzsébet kneeled down to help the potential customer ( _was it him? Could it be?_ ) off the floor.  
  
 _Quick, quick, slow._  
  
She threw a short glance at the other customers, the ones who had walked in behind the man from the plaza, the man who had gotten away. Erzsébet didn’t like what she saw. “R-romano?”  
  
Feliciano blinked. “Ve?”  
  
Ludwig frowned. “Who?”  
  
For her part, Erzsébet was terrified. “…it’s…I…” She hadn’t talked to any member of the team since the day she had run. Somehow she had escaped without anyone questioning her… but the guilt ate at her. She had thrown her phone into a canal before she had left Venice for good; she’d tried to symbolize the change she was about to make in her lifestyle ( _no more stealing!_ ). And yet, nothing had changed. Not really. She was still running away, except there was nowhere to run now. Not in the middle of the new life she had fashioned for herself. Not with Romano staring down at her.   
  
Smiling?  
  
“I think you have me mistaken for somebody else, Miss!” Romano smiled at her as though she had never betrayed him or the others. It reminded Erzsébet of the day they had met. Except she didn’t feel nearly as confident as she helped, what was his name again? As she helped her mystery man to his feet. “But I’m pretty sure I remember you.”  
  
Roderich cleared his throat. He’d been so rude, not to make proper introductions. But perhaps Feliciano didn’t need them? “You have met Miss Erzsébet before, Feliciano?”  
  
So Romano wasn’t really Romano then. He was… Feliciano… Feliciano?! _Fuck_. “Erzsébet is it? Ve, I thought we’d met before, I have a really good memory for those sorts of things.” He walked closer and gave Erzsébet a quick peck on the cheek. Before he drew away, he whispered in her ear. “I’ve heard stories too.”  
  
Erzsébet didn’t know what to say to that.  
  
Ludwig looked like he wanted to say something, but Roderich ignored him as he took back command of the conversation. Maybe if he carried himself properly, if he showed his angel how polite and well-mannered he usually was, he could get another chance ( _couldn’t blame a man for trying_ ). “I am terribly sorry that I never met you for our date, Erzsébet.” He closed his eyes and clenched a fist over his heart. “If I inconvenienced you in any way I will do anything I am able to, to make it up to you.” He really meant it too; he was prepared to do whatever it took to get back into her good favor.   
  
It threw him slightly off balance when she laughed at him. “I didn’t make it either. Something… something came up. So we’re even!” Her smile. Her smile was like the Moonlight Sonata on a warm evening, except her smile was no fantasy.  
  
She was the world’s only true angel. She was beautiful. She made Roderich lose his place, forget his words, there were only colors in his head, and melodies. She deserved a song in her honor… he would write one! She was wonderful. She was staring at him, expectantly, because he hadn’t said a word in over a minute. So, naturally, the first thing Roderich said when he snapped out of it was “I’m actually a world-famous concert pianist.”  
  
Erzsébet blinked, thrown. “What?”  
  
“I, ah,” he needed to set things right with Erzsébet. And to do that, he needed to clear away the slight lie he had told her back in Venice. “I was not entirely honest with you when we first met. I’m not a street musician. I’m an internationally acclaimed piano virtuoso.” Roderich hoped she wouldn’t take that as pride ( _although he was immensely proud of his talent_ ). It was just truth. And he wanted Erzsébet to know the real him.   
  
_He_ had lied to _her_? Maybe at the end of the day she would be able to find the humor in that. As it was, she spoke without really thinking about her reply. “I’m an international criminal in hiding.”  
  
Which, in retrospect, was a very bad idea. “Pardon?”  
  
Roma—no, Feliciano jumped to her rescue by literally throwing himself between Erzsébet and Roderich, and grabbing Erzsébet by the arm. “Ve, could you show me something over there,” he pointed to the farthest corner of the shop, “for a second?”  
  
“I suppose I could—”  
  
Feliciano began dragging her away. “Good!” He shooed Roderich and Ludwig off with his free hand in the meantime. “You two don’t mind us, ve, I really want to find out about that camera thing back there. You can visit somewhere else for a while.” Ludwig had spent enough time around Feliciano to know a command from a suggestion, and he pulled Roderich, lightly protesting all the while, outside.  
  
Once they were gone, Feliciano stopped smiling. “Which one is your real name?”  
  
She could ask him what he was talking about, but somehow she knew there would be no safety in the pretense. “Erzsébet.”

“Veee… you know what’s kind of funny?” She shook her head to the negative. “People are always telling my brother that he looks like me, when, really, I think it’s the other way around.” He picked up a box of film and idly turned it around, inspecting the label. “Don’t you agree?”  
  
What was this sick feeling…? “Brother?”  
  
Feliciano put the box back down and began to wave wildly with his arms. “Yeah! Lovino! Ve, but he goes by Romano, sometimes, when he does things that ‘Lovino Vargas’ isn’t supposed to do.” He tapped his finger against his chin. “But don’t tell him I said that, ve, because I’m not supposed to know about those things. You’re probably not either.”  
  
Then why was he telling her!? She could have gone her entire life without thinking about Romano ever again. Except Romano wasn’t just Romano anymore, he was also the scary Mafia brother she had made sure was out of town before planning the dates of their heist… shit. Shit. She was going to die. _Shit_. This was the end. “O-oh?”  
  
He brought his hands down and stepped close to her again. Her fight or flight instinct began to lean towards ‘fight’, but she knew trying to hurt Feliciano would be the worst of ideas. Feliciano stopped when he was arm-to-arm with Erzsébet. To an outsider it really would look like they were inspecting some merchandise off the back shelf. “You were one of them, weren’t you?”  
  
So he knew? He knew about all of it? “I— w— we never meant for anyone to get hurt.”  
  
Feliciano’s mouth curved up into a smile again, and Erzsébet recognized that sick feeling as fear; he shouldn’t be smiling so falsely. It looked painted on. “But lots of people _did_ get hurt, ve, so it doesn’t really matter what you wanted.”  
  
What could Erzsébet possibly do to atone for those days, that life, her mistakes? “I am so, _so_ sorry.”  
  
“Do you mean that?”  
  
Wait. Why was he looking at her so earnestly? “What?”  
  
Feliciano put his hand on Erzsébet’s shoulder. His eyes were trying to burn holes in hers. It was unnerving. “Do you mean that you’re sorry?”  
  
What was left to her? Erzsébet told him the truth. “Completely. Although… I know I can’t prove that to you.”  
  
“Hmm…” Feliciano backed away and moved to take a look at a group of photographs on the wall to Erzsébet’s left. They were old pictures; of Budapest, of Feliks, of home. Erzsébet had been very proud of them, when she had first started out, so they had made the journey with her to her new home abroad. “How did you meet Roderich?”  
  
Erzsébet gulped. “Come again?”  
  
Feliciano kept speaking to the framed pictures on the wall. His eyes roved back and forth across them. If Erzsébet didn’t know any better, she would have thought he wasn’t listening to her at all. “How did you meet Roderich, ve? I’d like to know!”  
  
“A few hours after I met you.” And hadn’t she been so distraught then, distraught because Feliciano had been a lovely person to meet. Kind, friendly, positive. He’d been exactly what she hadn’t wanted to find in the painter Veneziano. And then… “I ran into him in a square.”  
  
“I hope you apologized then too!”  
  
Erzsébet wrung her hands together, both serious and nervous. “Of course!”

“Did you say ‘sorry,’ or…?” He still wasn’t looking at her. Was that bad or good?  
  
“I bought him a flower.”  
  
Feliciano clapped his hands together and faced Erzsébet with a grin and a sigh. “That’s really sweet, ve, people don’t do that often enough these days, don’t you think?”  
  
“Yeah.” Emboldened by the upturn of Feliciano’s mood, Erzsébet tried to shift the conversation away from herself and into a more important direction. “If you don’t mind me asking, is that the man you were asking about,” she pointed out the shop window, towards Ludwig. He and Roderich had left the building, true… only to wait awkwardly on the street in front of it, “in the market?”  
  
He nodded and laughed. “That’s Ludwig, yes, but you don’t get to talk to him.” It was the most childish, strangely disturbing laugh she had ever heard a grown man utter. “No, ve, not yet.”  
  
Maybe she had been too forward. “Yes, Mr. Vargas.”  
  
Or maybe she hadn’t. Feliciano hadn’t decided yet. “Ve? That’s my grandfather! Call me Feliciano… didn’t I tell you to before? Maybe one day you can call me Feli, too!”  
  
Erzsébet sighed in relief. It seemed like Feliciano was done testing her. If that had been a test; it had felt like an examination of her endurance, at the very least. “Feliciano it is. You can call me Erzsi too, if you’d like.”  
  
“It’s pretty.” He put his finger on the picture of Feliks standing next to a fountain. Erzsébet liked that one the best, out of all the photographs she had taken of Feliks back in college. Feliciano had good taste. “Erzsi?”

“Yes?”  
  
He grinned down at the photo. His best patron’s face grinned back up at him, challenging, and Feliciano realized that he could let this not-so-strange woman have a happy ending. Or at least a chance at one. “Did you know that Roderich’s a really, _really_ old friend of mine?”  
  
Erzsébet dropped the folder she had been fiddling with. “I-I didn’t.”  
  
“Ve…” Why was she acting so scared? It wasn’t like he was threatening to throw her into a river or anything. “I promise to tell my brother where you are.”  
  
And things had been going so well. Should she begin packing her belongings or would it be better to save time and run without them? “What?! Please, don’t!”  
  
“I can’t do that, ve. You did a very bad thing.” The picture of Feliks, on the other hand, was a very good thing. It was well composed, and the choice of black and white film really set off the color in Feliks’s personality, which radiated from his whole body. “But it’ll be better this way. If _I_ didn’t tell him, eventually he’d just find you on his own.” And then he might do something drastic, and Feliciano didn’t approve of that. Not since Erzsébet had apologized. “And I bet he wouldn’t be as nice to you as I am, ve. He gets really cranky when he has to come up north.”  
  
Erzsébet laughed because her world was falling apart. Normality seemed like a far-off dream. “Cranky? I can see that.”  
  
“Exactly! He’d probably shoot you through your shop windows,” Feliciano could see that happening, because for all that Lovi really hated getting his hands dirty, he knew that his brother ‘took care of’ things personally sometimes. He also knew that Lovino didn’t know that he knew and… and since when did everybody in his family think that Feliciano wasn’t mature enough to handle the truth?! “And that would be a really big mess and a shame, ve, because you can be a very nice, pretty lady when you aren’t trying to lie to me and steal from me!”  
  
Ouch. Just, just ouch. “I know the words don’t really mean anything, Feliciano, but I truly _am_ so—”  
  
“Words might be cheap, but your feelings aren’t,” Feelings meant a lot to Feliciano. They were what drove him through his day and what kept him up at night. He used every emotion ( _joy, pain, anger, confusion, exasperation, curiosity_ ) to fuel his art, to fuel his relationships. Even his relationships with those men he knew who lived to do bad things. Bad things like threaten people and steal from them and kill them and leave their bodies slumped and alone in dark twisting alleyways. Feliciano held on to the little spark of brightness in every person that he met. And hoped that one day they would embrace it too. “And I’m really good at figuring out feelings.”  
  
“Does this mean…?” Did it mean that he had changed his mind? That he wouldn’t call Romano anyway? Was she spared?  
  
Feliciano giggled and skipped away from the picture of Feliks and over towards the door. “It means that I’ll call Lovi as soon as we leave!” Shit. “You might be watched for a while, or for the rest of your life, but isn’t that better than dying whenever they find you?” He had a point, but that didn’t mean that Erzsébet had to like it. How was she supposed to start over if there were great big brutes following her every move? “They will, ve, you can’t hide forever. It’s better like this. I promise you’ll be safe.”  
  
She followed him to the door. “I don’t think I should be thanking you.”  
  
“Maybe you should, ve, maybe you shouldn’t. I’m only telling you what’s going to happen to you.” He stopped where Roderich had fallen, only a few minutes before. “As long as you don’t make Roderich cry…” Feliciano couldn’t hold back his laughter at the expression on her face. Did she really think he was the type to go through with a scary threat like that?! It seemed so. That just meant that they needed more time to get to know each other. “Joking! He wouldn’t like it, ve, if he knew I’d threatened you into going out with him.”  
  
Her eyes went glassy, much like his own did when he saw strawberries, nowadays. “You don’t have to threaten me into doing that.”  
  
“Good! We’ll be seeing a lot more of each other, then, ve.” And Feliciano opened the shop door, bridging two worlds of awkward conversation ( _“What is your opinion of that tree on the corner?” “It is much too disorderly!” “I see…”_ ) into one.  
  
Roderich sighed in relief when both Feliciano and Erzsébet exited the shop without looking any different than they had before. “An enlightening discussion, I hope?”  
  
“Erzsi’s really really really smart about photography, ve, she was really helpful!” Feliciano trotted over to Ludwig’s side and pulled on his arm. “Ve! Ludwig, you need to be introduced!”  
  
Oh, so they were finally going to let him talk to her? “Not really. It is good to see you again, Miss Héderváry.” The other three stared at him and Ludwig sighed; it wouldn’t be so surprising if Feliciano hadn’t taken the woman captive for twenty minutes to talk about film. “I take it you don’t remember me.” She shook her head. Why did no one ever seem to remember Ludwig from before he was twelve? “Your family is friends with mine. We used to play together when we were little. Although… that was more of you shoving Gilbert into the lake after he ruined your mud castles.”  
  
Wha-what? This bulk of a man ( _who hopefully held Feliciano in his arms every night, as Feliciano whispered sweet nothings in his ear and licked a trail of… right_ ), this man was stringy cute little Ludi? Little Ludi, who couldn’t run very fast, who always tripped, who had to be carried home? “Gilbert’s little brother?! But you used to be so… I mean, you look well! Ludwig, was it?”  
  
Why had it taken her so long to answer? “Yes.”  
  
“Please, call me Erzsi.” She took the arm that wasn’t being held by Feliciano and smiled up at Ludwig. In his uncomfortable blush she could see the faint memory of stringy cute little Ludi. Maybe she didn’t need a thousand new beginnings after all. Maybe all she needed was to go back to her own story and take control of it. “You’re nothing like your brother…”  
  
“Thank you.”

“Ludwig!” Feliciano yanked Ludwig’s arm out of Erzsébet’s grasp and began to run, pulling him along, leaving Erzsébet and Roderich confused in front of the store. “We had that appointment at that place for artists and things and people who don’t play music or take pictures don’t you remember it started half an hour ago we’ll be late if we don’t run there right now in fact can you carry me there on your back please please please because, ve, I’m really really tired from all the walking we’ve been doing today but we really have to leave now sorry bye!”  
  
And then they were gone. Strategically gone. Panting behind the nearest corner gone.  
  
Roderich didn’t know what was going on, but thanked the universe for the time alone with Erzsébet. Now was the time to ask her out again… “You know the Beilschmidts as well?” Drat.  
  
“I do.”   
  
Alright. The mood was amicable. He could do this! “Quite a small world we live in.” **_Drat_**.  
  
“I couldn’t agree more.” Erzsébet smiled, and took his hand. “Would you care to come inside?”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
“Excuse me, could you please tell me where Alfred F. Jones is staying?”  
  
“We don’t have anyone by that name here, sir.”  
  
“Please Miss? I was informed by his doctors that he wanted to see me.” He pulled a thick wallet out of his coat pocket and set three sets of paper onto the high counter. “Here’s my identification. Could you check again?”  
  
She blushed, and looked left and right. “…oh. I see. I must have missed his name the first time around. Mr. Jones is on the fourth floor, on the third door from the end of the left corridor. Please have a good day.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Toris Lorinaitis slipped his passport and the money she hadn’t taken back into his wallet, which he placed safely back inside his coat pocket, and made his way over to the elevators. He was four floors away, and he was afraid of what he would find. But that didn’t stop him from moving forward.  
  
Forty-or-so feet higher up, he found a strange man pacing in the hallway in front of Alfred’s room. “Excuse me,” the man stopped. His suit was badly wrinkled. It looked as though he had been sitting for a long time before he had taken to striding back and forth. “Are you alright?”  
  
The stranger spoke, but not to Toris. He didn’t really seem aware of what was going on around him. “He won’t speak with me. Not even to tease. I can’t… I can’t understand it.”  
  
That was certainly odd for Alfred, who had loved to tease everyone within earshot, even back when he and Toris had lived together, but “stranger things have happened.”  
  
Finally, the man looked him in the eye. “Well. Lorinaitis? My name is Arthur Kirkland. It’s a pleasure.” He held out his hand to shake Toris’s, movements stilted and shaky and rote. Toris reached out with his own hand. He was afraid if he didn’t, Arthur Kirkland would just start shaking thin air and he wanted to spare the strange man the embarrassment.  
  
“Yes, I am. How did you know?”

“He’s been asking for you.” The doctors had said the same, if not in the same tone of voice. Toris already knew what he would find behind the heavy hospital door, but that didn’t make it any less saddening when he saw the impact Alfred’s condition had had on the people closest to him. “Tell him I’m taking over his work, full time. He’ll know what that means.” The man seemed to scowl with his whole body. “One day. Bloody fuck, it’s a figure of speech.”  
  
“It’s hope. And not unfounded.” Toris patted Arthur Kirkland on the back, and smoothed some of the wrinkles out of his suit jacket while he was at it. “I’ve seen the worst happen to the worst: far worse people than Alfred.”  
  
Arthur straightened his tie and moved away. “…this isn’t protocol, exactly, but I don’t know how much the department will tell me, now that we’re no longer partners.” He cleared his throat and stared sharply up at one of the light fixtures as he held out a small piece of paper. “Can you…?”  
  
Toris reached out and grabbed the paper, sparing the words written on it a brief glance. He could have figured out what Arthur wanted even without looking down. “I can send updates to this address, it’s no trouble.”  
  
And now Arthur was looking at the floor. “Thank you. I have no idea when I’ll be back to read them, but. It’s good. Knowing they’re there.”  
  
“Of course.” Toris nodded and motioned towards Alfred’s door. “Will you join me?”  
  
Arthur scoffed. “I’ve already said it. He doesn’t speak to me. And I have to go anyway.” He shrugged. “Plane to catch.”  
  
Life had been wearing Arthur Kirkland down like water on sandstone over the years; it wasn’t difficult for even a stranger like Toris to see. What had happened to Alfred had probably been too much to handle. Toris pitied the man. “Have a good afternoon.”  
  
“As good as I ever do.”  
  
After Arthur Kirkland disappeared down the hallway, Toris steeled himself for the truth and opened Alfred’s door. The room behind it had one bed, three chairs, one sink, and one heavily bandaged man attempting to play cards with a robot. The man was Alfred, no doubt about that; Toris would be able to pick out Alfred’s face no matter the number of bruises or cuts or strips of gauze that covered it.  
  
It took the _click_ of Toris closing the door for Alfred to notice him. “Toris! Hey, man, glad you finally got here! I just woke up an hour ago.” Toris had been halfway across the world, in a photoshoot with Feliks, the day before when he had gotten a phone call ( _“Mr. Lorinaitis, he keeps asking for you…”_ ). So Alfred was still like this? That was… worrisome. “Doc says I still can’t exert myself. And by that, he means ‘do anything fun.’ Or anything at all.”  
  
Toris sat down in one of the unoccupied chairs next to the bed. “Poker doesn’t count?”  
  
“Nah, well… they don’t know that I figured out how to turn this guy,” he nodded over at the robot, “on. And ‘sides, how could I overexert myself just by playing poker? Especially since the robot does everything for me.”  
  
“It’s for the best, Alfred.” Toris snuck a glance at Alfred’s cards, sitting face up on the little tray table attached to his bed. Ace high. Hmm… how easy was it to bluff to a robot? How easy was it to bluff a robot who had dealt to you and who could see your cards? “The doctors don’t want you to get hurt all over again.”  
  
“Yes, _mom_.”  
  
Toris smiled and flicked Alfred on the chin. It was one of the few parts of Alfred’s face Toris wasn’t afraid of injuring even more. “Don’t snap back at me, young man.”  
  
Alfred laughed and let himself sink back into the giant mound of pillows he was propped against. He didn’t have the range of movement to do much besides lie against the pillows and laugh. “Heh! I missed you, man. It just wasn’t normal without you, although the robot is pretty sweet. He says his name is Tony. He’s pretty friendly.”  
  
If it was Toris’s game, he would get rid of the three and the five… “You break _every_ normal, Alfred. They want to keep you under observation just in case you destroy the laws of gravity in your room while you’re at it.”  
  
“Like space!” Alfred cringed, after he shouted. His voice was still weak and he had tried to pump his fist into the air, which his broken bones frankly didn’t agree with. “Damn, I wish… I know, I know, you keep telling me that I should keep trying for the program. That I’m smart enough and all that crap. But… it just takes so much. So much everything.” He frowned. “And I give everything extra to Mattie, you know that Toris.”  
  
Hearing Alfred talking like this was eerie, because he’d acted much the same a decade beforehand when he and Toris had been the ones playing cards at their own kitchen table. After they’d gone their separate ways, Alfred had never talked about his difficulties and failed dreams with Toris. With anyone. “I’m sure you’ll find something else to dream about.” The next words came out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Have you ever taken law enforcement into consideration?”  
  
“Like spies?”

Toris couldn’t say “no” quickly enough. “Not like spies. Like staying in a small town, catching speeders, getting to know everybody and making them feel safe.” That sort of life suited Alfred. Well. That was a lie, with a grain of truth buried inside of it. Because that sort of life would suit Alfred for all of a month before he got bored of it and ran off in search of some new excitement.  
  
“That’s cool, I guess.” Toris waited for the inevitable. The inevitable, inevitably, occurred. “But boring. I wonder what it’d be like to be a spy.”  
  
This conversation was rapidly getting too strange for Toris to handle. Alfred was hurt. Alfred was in the hospital. Alfred could apparently not remember anything from after he was twenty-one or anything from the time after he had been assaulted. Alfred, secret agent, was pondering on what life would be like as a spy. “I doubt it’s as wonderful as you think.” The least Toris could do for Alfred was dissuade him from repeating his mistakes. Just in case he never remembered.  
  
“Maybe.” Alfred looked as hopeful as a man with such a puffy purple face could look. “Now that you’re here, do you think they’ll let me go? I mean, I don’t feel all that bad.”   
  
“You look it.”  
  
Alfred laughed again. “Do I? I guess it’s all that morphine that’s making me feel good. It’ll be a sad day when they turn the drip off, hey Toris?” He attempted a wink; it ended up looking more like one of his swollen eyes was twitching.  
  
Toris didn’t let it get to him. “You? Lucid? The world has never seen such a thing.”  
  
“… he’s a real joker, ain’t he Tony.”  
  
The robot’s eyes flashed out of his power-saving mode. “Yes.”  
  
Toris let a little silence pass between them before he couldn’t hold it in anymore. He’d travelled a long way to say it. “I’m sorry.” For introducing Alfred to Eduard, for not voicing his concerns when Alfred joined INTERPOL, for losing touch. Mostly for the last.  
  
Alfred tried to raise an eyebrow, and failed at that as well. For such a physically expressive person, his confined condition must have been difficult. “What for? You didn’t pay off any nurses to get up here or anything, did you?” Toris’s smile froze on his face, but Alfred kept speaking without commenting on it. “I’m top secret stuff. They said they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me.”  
  
“Like I said, you defy all expectations.” Previously, medical expectations hadn’t been on the list. Especially not medical expectations that usually belonged on daytime television: amnesia? Both retrograde and anterograde amnesia at once? Selective memory? Trauma? Stress? For so long? No one had been able to properly explain to Toris what was going on inside Alfred’s brain… all Toris had were his own thoughts.  
  
“I guess…”  
  
Alfred, well if he had to guess, Toris would say that Alfred winced. “Something wrong?”

“My head just hurts a little.”  
  
Toris stood. “Let me ring for the doctors.”  
  
It was harder for Alfred to wave things away as unimportant ( _and then grit his teeth and go through them alone_ ) when he was unable to wave. “It’s not important. It’s been happening a lot.”  
  
Toris pressed the button on the side of Alfred’s bed anyway. “…have they told you any of what’s happened to you, Alfred?” He hoped they had, but wouldn’t be surprised if the doctors had left that up to him.  
  
Alfred closed his eyes. “They told me I shouldn’t be like this. But I don’t remember the other stuff. I think there was other stuff?” He opened his eyes again, just as the one with the least amount of swelling began to water. “Fuck, this is annoying.”  
  
Toris laughed without humor and smoothed Alfred’s blankets down around his legs. “That’s what you get for not paying attention.” Maybe it would be easier for Alfred, if Toris played the situation lightly.  
  
Maybe, maybe not. Alfred was a tricky one to figure out at the best of times. He rolled his eyes, dramatically, in response to Toris’s chiding. “You won’t leave yet? I don’t want to bus back to the apartment by myself.”  
  
They hadn’t lived together in years. Toris wondered who was living in that old dump, now. Maybe it had been demolished. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was a parking structure now, or even just an empty lot. “I’m not going anywhere yet, Alfred.”  
  
His words did the trick ( _or at least gave Alfred enough to work with to pretend they had_ ), and Alfred snapped out of his low mood. “C’mon! Now that you’re here, we can have a real game of cards! Blackjack this time.” The robot began to recollect and shuffle the cards on the table. “I hope you brought a bunch of cash, man. My skills haven’t slipped at all, even though I’ve been stuck in here.”  
  
Toris grinned. This was more like Alfred. “I’m not too shabby either.”  
  
“And you say _I’m_ flying high now… psh, alright Tony, deal. And don’t go easy on me!” The robot’s eyes flashed again, presumably in outrage, if Alfred had been the one to build him. ‘Tony’ looked like the kind of robot Alfred would build.   
  
Halfway through their fifth game, Toris’s suspicions were not confirmed, but instinct made him take a chance. “You’re a good actor.” Alfred’s face turned to stone. Toris pressed on. “Why don’t you tell them?”  
  
If Alfred could bury his face in the pillows around him he would have. He didn’t want to look at Toris. But he had no choice. “…I don’t want them to make me go back.” His already thin voice dropped to a rasping whisper. “I think I’m done with being a spy, for now. I just,” Alfred repeated what he’d told the person-shaped shadow of Lovino Vargas, earlier in the day, “I want to go home.”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Gilbert hiccupped into his fourth beer as the bar around him erupted into cheers. The home team had just scored another goal. “Gotta ship out to Siberia in a few days. Uh, I didn’t just say that.” He rubbed his face with his free hand and peaked through his fingers at his friends. Francis was staring at the bartender’s ass. Antonio had propped his arms up on the counter and was probably keeping upright by sheer luck ( _it didn’t help that he was the only one in the bar cheering for the opposing team. Several old men had tried to knock him off his stool already_ ).  
  
“That’s nothing. I have a meeting with one of my father’s CEOs in the morning. In Belgium.” While he spoke, Francis didn’t take his eyes off the bartender ( _he was actually looking at her breasts, thank you_ ). Her name was Jeanne and she didn’t take any nonsense from him and he was already far more interested than he should have been. He’d been ( _sneaking away from Vash and_ ) coming to the bar she worked at for a week and a half, already, just to see her. After the last time she had turned him down ( _“Maybe if you’d pay off your tab I’d think about it”_ ), Francis had dragged Antonio and Gilbert along because there was safety in numbers when the numbers were just that good looking.  
  
“I was…” No one could remember how much Antonio had drunk already. By this point, it was rather irrelevant. “Was s’posed to go out with Lovi. Tonight.” His arms wiggled and he switched to propping up his face with his beer bottle. It wasn’t that he didn’t like hanging out with his old friends now and then, but Lovino had practically ordered him to leave after Francis had made Antonio give the phone over to him… Lovi’s face had looked really strange during that conversation. But. But then he’d spent fifteen minutes chewing Antonio out for going and cancelling their plans and… _one_ signal was usually too much for Antonio’s mind. _Mixed_ signals…?  
  
Gilbert snickered at his poor, pathetic, whipped friend. “You’re watching the game with your friends. You’re busy. This is _man’s_ work.”  
  
“But Lovi’s a man… and he has box seats too.” Antonio blew a half-hearted stream of air over the top of his half empty bottle. The sound was drowned out by the chatter and chanting in the room around them. “I think he got mad at me when I said I couldn’t come with him. I think he was hinting something about owning the team.” He nodded up at the men running around in blue on the screen and cheered belatedly when he noticed they had scored again ( _in response, a stranger tried to hit him in the face, but was stopped by Gilbert’s fist getting to the side of the stranger’s head first_ ).  
  
“Shit.” Gilbert shook out his hand. “Can we have Man Night with you guys next time? Francis?”  
  
Francis hummed and returned his gaze to his friends. “Good seats?”  
  
“Right on the center line.”  
  
Francis’s response was quick. “Lovino’s a man too: it’s not fair to exclude him.” Not when the perks of including him were so appealing. All Francis had to do was participate in a complicated dance of blackmail… but Lovino Vargas had said nothing yet about Francis’s role in the robbery to Antonio yet. He was probably safe… and life was good.  
  
Antonio might have agreed. If he’d had a lower blood alcohol content. “ _Loviiiiiii._ ”  
  
Gilbert ignored his friend’s outburst and punched his hand in the air in victory. He was followed by the rest of the bar as the home team won a penalty shot ( _a local girl even patted him on the back…_ ). “Sweet! Next game’s gonna be awesome! Oi!” he flagged down the bartender Francis had been having so much trouble with. “Another round for us!”  
  
Jeanne looked at Gilbert with some trepidation and Francis couldn’t blame her. “Don’t worry, my dear; he’s not as far gone as he looks.” She rolled her eyes at him, but she smiled too and it felt like more of a victory than anything that was happening on the television. Francis nodded at Antonio next. Somehow he had managed to sit up straight without leaning against anything. It was disturbing how sober he looked compared to the empty bottles scattered around his arms. “And he’s farther ( _much_ ). It all balances out, with us.”  
  
She batted his hand away when he moved it to cover hers, but she went to get their drinks anyway. New beer in hand, Gilbert’s spirits raised a thousand fold. He raised his bottle along with them, in a toast. “To me!”  
  
Antonio raised his glass too and almost overbalanced when he did. “To that thing Lovi does with his—”  
  
Francis cut his friend off, because there were things that even _he_ never wanted to think about. “To _friends_.”  
  
Gilbert grinned and slapped the table, because even though he hadn’t said it, he’d been thinking it. Had probably thought of it first. “That too.”  
  
 **THUNK**  
  
Antonio finally succumbed to gravity and the sheer percentage ethanol his blood had become, Francis and Gilbert high-fived over his prone body, Jeanne shook her head and took the remainder of Antonio’s beer away from him, and the opposing team won by one point with one second left in the game.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
“You said you would call. I was worried…”  
  
“Eh? Mr. Vargas?”

“Boy?”  
  
He frowned as he wound the bandage around Lovino’s arm and tried not to wake him. “You said you’d stop calling me that, Mr. Vargas. I’m almost 30.”  
  
“…so? Boy, why do you have my grandson’s phone?”  
  
“He’s busy.”  
  
The other line was silent for a few seconds as Romolo’s mind spun through all the things his grandson could be doing that would prevent him from answering the phone. “Doing what?”  
  
“Sleeping.”  
  
“Why are you anywhere near him when he’s sleeping…?”  
  
The question had curiosity in it, but was mostly comprised of malice. Antonio found it so strange to be directed at him, but it was the only way Mr. Vargas had been talking to him lately. “It’s not such a strange situation for us.”  
  
Mr. Vargas didn’t take the hint. “One day he’s going to realize you’re not good enough for him.”  
  
“You keep saying that. It’s not very nice.”  
  
“I keep saying it because it’s true.”  
  
“I don’t think so.” Lovino tried to turn over in his sleep and Antonio had to set the phone down to stop him before he pulled the stitches out. Once done, Antonio adjusted the blanket around Lovino’s waist and picked Lovino’s phone back up. “Lovi doesn’t think so either.”  
  
“…and that’s why you will never amount to anythi—what? What?”  
  
“Oh. Sorry. I set down the phone. I guess I missed what you said. Was it important?”  
  
“You’re a great kid, kid. But you aren’t perfect.” Mr. Vargas sighed on the other line. “And after everything, I’ll be damned if either of them ends up with anything less than perfect.”  
  
“But nobody’s perfect.”  
  
“There are plenty that are closer than you. More than I could count. People who don’t kill, don’t stalk, people who graduated from high school…”  
  
That was a low blow, even from Mr. Vargas; he _knew_ Antonio was sensitive about that. “You’re trying to make me feel guilty! It’s not going to work.”  
  
“Do you honestly think the two of you are really in love?”  
  
It was the “ **yes!** ” that finally woke Lovino up.  
  
He saw Antonio, framed by the light coming from the lamp on the bedside table. “Urgh, wha?” He saw his phone, in Antonio’s hand. “…wait…” He saw red. “Gimme that!”  
  
“You will never amount to anything.”  
  
Lovino grit his teeth as his cuts reopened. “ **What. Was. That?** ”  
  
Funny coincidences happened to Romolo a lot when he was around Feliciano. The ones that happened around Lovino erred on the side of painful. “Huh? Lovi? But wasn’t I talking to—”  
  
“Fuck it all, are you still on that? Give it a fucking rest you stupid old man, the both of you just shut up and let me _sleep_ goddammit do you know what I’ve had to _do_ for the past week? Do you know how many widows want me _dead_? Shit, if you don’t stop fucking pestering me about my personal life I swear to God I won’t go to your damn birthday party tomorrow, I won’t even acknowledge you as _family_ even if Feliciano drags you down to my doorstep and veveve’s at me until he passes out, _fuck it_ _all_ , I won’t even recognize you if the world ends this _second_ and all the _saints_ come into my bedroom to tell me I’m damned to eternal fucking fiery _torment_ not because of the Family or the lies or the killing or because of—of **him** ,” he flailed in Antonio’s direction, “but because I fucking hate **you** so much.”  
  
Romolo heard a little something like cloth rustling and ‘Lovi!’ on the other line through his dumbfounded silence. “But this is the only way I know how to show that I care.” Oh wait. He hadn’t actually planned on _saying_ that.  
  
But it was good that he had. “…I am hanging up on you. Just go to sleep you old bastard. We’ll see you in the morning. Yes. _We_.”  
  
Lovino closed his phone, threw it at Antonio and hid his embarrassingly furious red blush in one of his pillows because it had been months but damn it if it didn’t still feel strange to admit that Antonio and he were anything together at all.  
  
\- - - - -  
  
It looked like rain outside and Antonio was staring at him from the table. It was the same sort of stare he used to use back when he’d been a creepy stalker and had spent most of his time on the corner across the street. Except now it had a few more hints of _something_ that made Lovino blush a little, or maybe it was only now that he was able to pick those little hints out. Either way… “You know you could _help_.”  
  
Antonio watched Lovino throw his whole weight down as he kneaded the dough that would become their dinner and sighed in appreciation. Lovi always hated it when Antonio asked for pasta all'uovo when it was Lovi’s turn to cook dinner. But… it was so _good_. “But then I couldn’t watch you!”  
  
Lovino grunted. “It would get done faster.”  
  
So? It was the _process_ that Antonio enjoyed. “But I would miss my favorite part!”  
  
And Lovino knew it. “Pervert.”  
  
A creak and the ring of the bell out front told Antonio and Lovino that someone had come into the bakery. As Lovino was hands deep in Antonio’s favorite part of the week, Antonio hopped up from his seat and ( _sadly_ ) went to see what the late customer wanted. He came back in a few short minutes. But this time, he had someone else with him.  
  
Maria had come back from her three month long vacation to Switzerland to find almost everything at home just as she had left it. The streets of the small town looked the same, still dusty. The people looked the same as they had looked for her entire life… although it felt like the bakery was short a few workers. They must have moved. It was strange that they hadn’t taken their wives with them, but not too terribly strange; she had heard rumors ( _not that she would believe them!_ ), that the baker was messed up in some illegal business.  
  
The baker.  
  
Maria, like a few of the other girls in town, and a few more in the towns surrounding, had found herself infatuated with Lovino Vargas from the first time she stepped into his shop and he gave her a smile and a free loaf of bread. He had been single again when she had gone to Switzerland.  
  
She was back from Switzerland now… back and determined.  
  
Maybe her plans weren’t the smartest, but they were at least a _little_ clever, right? Maria had tried to run them by Adriana, because Adriana was an old friend, and Adriana was married to one of the men who worked at the bakery ( _and maybe because Adriana used to have a little something with Lovino Vargas, so maybe Maria could try and see what sort of woman Lovino_ didn’t _like when she talked to Adriana…_ ). And because Adriana was an old friend. Of course.  
  
Adriana had told her that Lovino Vargas was a no-good demonic bastard of a faggot when Maria had broached her idea. That was… harsh. Yes, Maria could understand that Adriana might still be a little jealous, but her oaths had been uncalled for. Planning to get stuck in Lovino Vargas’s apartment using the old “oh _no_ , I left my umbrella at home and it’s just pouring _so much_ ” line might not have been the most creative trick, but it was something, wasn’t it?  
  
The strange thing was that the other young girls in the market at the time hadn’t chided Adriana for her outburst at all. One girl had started swearing on her own. One had sighed. More than one had cried. But the strange actions of other people didn’t matter to Maria, because the weather report had a torrential downpour on the menu and she was already in the bakery in her best dress, ringing the bell.  
  
The tousled hair and grin that appeared out of the back kitchen didn’t belong to Lovino Vargas, and it took Maria a minute to remember, but once she did she was confused. Wasn’t that Antonio? Everybody knew Antonio was a Mafioso, for all that he smiled all the time and was so polite. There was just something about how he stood around all day… no one with a real job would be able to do that.  
  
Maria’s mother had raised her with manners, though, so she greeted Antonio anyway. “Hello. Is Lovino here?” ( _She had to greet him. She didn’t have to do it nicely._ )  
  
Antonio let her clipped tone slide right off his answering smile as he gave her a kiss on the cheek and ushered her back into the kitchen, where Lovino was still working. “Back from Switzerland already? I thought your grandmother said you wouldn’t be home for another week!”  
  
She looked at up at him, confused. He’d talked to her grandmother? “Well, yes, I wasn’t supposed to. My plans changed and I took an earlier flight.”  
  
By then, they were in the kitchen, and Lovino was there, near her, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, staring ( _mostly at Antonio_ ) just at her, pausing from his important work just for her. And then Antonio had to go and ruin it by talking again. “Lovi! Look who’s come to visit!” Lovino Vargas looked at the strange girl Antonio had brought back into his sanctuary and found her face vaguely familiar. That was it. “It’s _Maria_.”  
  
Antonio was an idiot, but he was a lifesaver too sometimes. Girls could get so upset ( _and shrill_ ) when you forgot who they were. “Maria! Of _course_ , I didn’t need you to tell me that, Antonio ( _thank you for telling me that. You will be rewarded_ ).”  
  
Maria blushed when Lovino walked across the room. She practically died when he kissed her on the cheek. She was so out of it that she didn’t notice him whispering quickly and angrily at Antonio behind her. It was unfortunate; she might not have chosen to do what she did next if she’d heard what he’d been saying ( _“You fucker, what part of ‘dinner for the two of us, I’m tired’ don’t you understand?”_ ).  
  
“Lovino?”  
  
He stopped twisting Antonio’s arm and gave Maria his full attention. “Yes, beautiful?”  
  
B-beautiful? She could do this! “You promised me dinner before I left.”  
  
“You left?” Antonio leaned over and whispered, quickly, in Lovino’s ear ( _“She was in Switzerland for three months, her grandmother comes in on Tuesdays around 9 in the morning._ Maria _.”_ ) “I mean, yes. Sure. You went to Switzerland.”  
  
He remembered! “Then can we have dinner tonight?” Maria was aghast at how forward she was being, but it had to be done. This was for love!  
  
Antonio chirped his answer before Lovino had time to think of a way to gently let her down and kick her out. “Sure!” _Bastard_.  
  
Dinner wasn’t quiet, but Lovino took every chance he could to glare at Antonio and kick him under the table. The smiling masochist probably enjoyed it, though, and just kept asking after the girl’s family, and “how was your grandfather doing, Maria? I heard he was sick last week. I hope he’s doing better!” Bastard. Bastard who knew everybody… actually, Lovino couldn’t rightfully complain about that, since he knew everyone in the town as well. Fine then. Bastard who was liked by everybody…  
  
Just before she finished off her tiramisu, which was the best she had ever eaten because Lovino had made it with love and she could pretend that love had been meant for her, Maria drew up her courage and put her plan into action. “Oh no!” She pointed to the window of Lovino’s charming little apartment that sat over his charming little store, and to the storm outside. “It’s pouring out and I didn’t bring an umbrella!”  
  
Lovino stared at her. “We have one. You could borrow it.”  
  
Drat, she hadn’t thought of that. Never mind, maybe if she changed the subject… “Could I stay here?”  
  
Lovino blinked. Antonio just smiled and answered for him. Again ( _Bastard’s sleeping alone for a week_ ). “Sure!”  
  
 _Fantastic_.  
  
Maria stood up, quickly, and tried to help clear the table ( _to show she was excellent wife material! Pride didn’t matter when a husband was at stake!_ ). It felt good when _both_ men jumped up to take the plates and glasses from her. She sat down again, and tried to look her most coy. “C-could I share with you, Lovino?” There. She’d done it. Now all she needed was her answer.  
  
Antonio opened his big stupid mouth again as he finished setting the dishes in the sink. “Ah, but that’s what the guestroom is for!”  
  
“But there are only two bedrooms…” And that second one was _Antonio’s_ room, right? Because somehow Antonio had become Lovino’s roommate, because Antonio was a poor loser who didn’t have a job, and because Lovino was gracious and wonderful and let Antonio stay above the store and maybe work at his bakery and nothing else, right? Maria had heard _rumors_ , but… ‘rumor’ was just slang for ‘lies!’  
  
Antonio put an arm around Lovino’s waist and walked them both into the master bedroom. He shot a smile and a wave at Maria from the door before he closed and locked it. “We don’t get _that_ many guests. Good night!”  
  
Oh.  
  
 _Oh_.  
  
Maria quietly decided that perhaps the storm would be easier to face than staying in the apartment for one second longer. And… and maybe the fruit seller down the street was more handsome. Yeah. Yeah that was right! He was more handsome than Lovino Vargas by far. Or he could be, if she had a little time to let her heart and pride heal.  
  
Maria left.  
  
Back in the bedroom, Lovino scowled at Antonio as he began to remove Lovino’s clothes. It was far too early for sleep, and the slam of the door that had signaled the girl’s flight had only reached Lovino’s ears a few seconds earlier. He was cranky. “You were laughing at me the whole night.”  
  
Antonio started working on Lovino’s pants. The black fabric had flour stains; maybe Antonio should have warned Lovino to change before requesting what he had for dinner? They’d been a little preoccupied at the time. “Mmm.”  
  
Lovino pushed Antonio’s hands away, because goddammit he could take off his own clothes, he wasn’t _three_. “You could have acted jealous. Run her off.”  
  
“But she’s a nice girl. Just a little misguided.” And, in effect, Antonio _had_ run her off. But if Lovino hadn’t noticed that, then Antonio wasn’t going to be the one to point it out. “And I like seeing you conflicted.”  
  
“I’ll conflict _you_.”  
  
Antonio had been hoping that Lovi would say that, because he had already prepared his response. He thought of it as a nice present to himself for letting Maria know in the softest way he could think of that her attentions were _not welcome_. If he’d left that up to Lovi, the poor girl would have probably been told flat-out that Lovino didn’t remember who she was. “No you won’t, tonight’s _my_ turn.”  
  
Lovino sat down on their bed, less grumpy than before ( _but still grumpy_ ), and used his trump card. “…Boss’s orders.”

“Exactly.” Antonio’s smile could melt steel, could melt hearts, could make Lovino want to hit him in the chest for drawing this out. “And tonight I’m Boss.”  
  
\- - - - -  
  
Feliciano sighed. Another evening, another gala, another success. He wandered around the empty showroom, pausing in front of his newest paintings. Almost every single one had sold at the gala, earlier in the evening. The theme this time had been gold; he had thought it was funny, when the concept had sparked in his brain. When Lovi had seen the finished paintings, he had taken two really deep breaths. Almost like he was trying to control his temper…  
  
It was so late: time slipped away from Feliciano when he was showing his work. But he _had_ promised Ludwig he would call when he was ready to come home. It was the least he could do. Feliciano put his hand in his pocket and withdrew a slim phone, a gift from his brother ( _he suspected Lovi had him tracked by satellite nowadays, which was why he usually made sure to leave his cell phone at home whenever possible_ ), and powered it on.  
  
Lovino had been giving him lots of ‘gifts’ lately. All starting with the multi-million Euro collection of boring gold bars he had commissioned Ludwig to cast. Feliciano knew they needed some sort of lie for everyone outside of the family as to why he had money again. He also knew that Antonio could rig Lovi’s books well enough for the lie to be accepted. But that hadn’t stopped Feliciano from pouting at his newly casted earnings once Ludwig had finished; bars were such a boring shape!  
  
A small chime broke through Feliciano’s thoughts. His phone had a new message. Funny. Who would have called him on the night of his newest showing?  
  
“It’s me.” Lovi? “Look, I’m going on a… vacation for a few weeks, alright?   
  
“I swear to God if you get yourself kidnapped again, I am **not** bailing your stupid ass out this time. If you screw this up for me, I’ll… I’ll, I’ll tell that Kraut that you hate him and I’ll stop all pasta delivery to your house for the rest of your life. I’m **serious** , do you understand me?”  
  
 _A scuffle._  
  
“Give that back, moron, you have your own.” _A cough._ “We’ll see you in a few weeks. Don’t call. Don’t get kidnapped. Remember to get some sleep—”  
  
 _An interruption._ “Feli! Feli! Lovi and I are going to Spain and getting—”  
  
 _Click._  
  
With one hand Feliciano Vargas picked up a stray champagne flute, still mostly full, from its place on a nearby display stand. He raised it in a little toast as he disconnected from his voicemail, laughed as it gleamed in the light, and smiled as he drank to his brothers.  
  
  
( _End_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends where it began. Sort of. It’s more like a curlicue than a circle; there were some changes, but in the flat plane of setting v. action, it ended where it began. Except with about 5000000x the recommended daily dose of fluff. ( _Still can't believe it's over. Woah._ )
> 
> And now for some stats!
> 
> **Inside the story:**
> 
> Tryggvi = trustworthy  
> Ármannsson = messenger’s son ( _Tryggvi would like you not to shoot the messenger thanks_ )
> 
> Flowers ( _according to the internet_ ):   
> Red tulip = declaration of love  
> Yellow tulip = ( _nowadays_ ) there’s sunshine in your smile  
> Lily of the Valley = trustworthy  
> Globeflowers = thankfulness ( _incidentally, European Globeflowers grow in Sweden_ )  
> Mint = suspicion  
> Mignonette = worth ( _plain flowers, beautiful scent_ )  
> Burgundy roses = unconscious beauty  
> 3 roses = I love you  
> 21 roses = I am devoted to you  
> Pink carnation = a woman’s love
> 
> Links: http://www.enotes.com/topic/Language_of_flowers, http://www.send-great-flowers.com/meaning-of-flowers.html#d, http://www.loveletterbox.com/meaning_of_roses.htm 
> 
> **About the story:**
> 
> \- The title was thought up on the fly, at 1am, because I feel lame not having titles. But I don’t think of this story as BLPiTTW. I’m a little ashamed of the title, actually.
> 
> \- This story is saved in a Word doc called “Stuff Blows Up” and has been since I first started drafting up character bios on Feb 6 2010.
> 
> \- Word thought there were so many spelling errors in this that it shut off the auto spell-check ( _no more little red lines!_ ).
> 
> \- There was almost an Officer Honda, to get some Asian in here, but I didn’t think I could manage another character.
> 
> \- Originally, Ivan was supposed to break Eduard out of jail. It got changed to Belarus ‘cause I wanted to keep Ivan as a nightmare character.
> 
> \- Also: no one was supposed to die. But that felt weird, so lots of OCs died instead. And Raivis. I couldn’t bring myself to kill anybody else directly ( _this saved your ass, Alfred_ ).
> 
> \- Every instance of Hungary’s first name is copy-pasted, because I was too lazy to learn the alt code for that e.
> 
> \- Final page count: 235
> 
> \- Final word count ( _including chapter titles_ ): 103,451
> 
> \- Hours devoted to this: ??? ( _a lot_ )
> 
> \- I’ve lurked in several fandoms, for several years, but I never thought I’d have the balls to write a real story of my own and share it. And then this happened. Ah ha, I feel like a lurker->contributor poster child. ( _You too can write a really long story about the human versions of ambiguously gay personified countries! All you have to do is try! Thumbs up, big grin!_ )
> 
> \- Final “fuck” count: 132  
> \- Final “so” count: 504  
> \- Final “well” count: 147  
> \- Final “just” count: 449
> 
> ( _There are words and phrases I abuse? Reeeeeally??_ )
> 
> And that’s how it goes. Thank you to **everyone** who read and enjoyed.
> 
>  **2015 edit:** This fic was self-edited in January 2011, and transferred in bits and pieces to AO3 from 2012 to 2015. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
